I’m lucky.

My neighbor, who has probably the kindest soul of anyone I’ve ever met, is dead. He moved to Jersey a year or two ago, and we lost touch. He was like a surrogate father to me growing up when my Dad wasn’t around much and taught me so many things: courage, faith, action, resilience and much, much more. (He was at least 30 years my senior, and I’ve always have had a bit of reverence toward older-folk.) He taught me how to be brave in the face of frustration; compassionate in times of unrest. When my mind broke, meaning when I was caught in the most abject miserable conditions of my younger life (prior to my Bipolar diagnosis) he stood by me, let me talk for hours on end and always – no matter where I was at mentally and physically – had (and made me) feel welcome in his home.

I could go on-and-on (how he arranged my first guitar gig, for a whopping $50), but I digress.

If there were one person who I could say goodbye to, one person to convey my gratitude and let him know our time was precious, it would be him. So, I want to see his ghost. Now, I don’t mean attending some sort of seance, or other malarky, I want to say goodbye. I want to let him know I’ve been weeping for him. I just want that one last conversation. I want to see him again. Once. It’s all I ask. Is that weird?