As I look upon the crypts that fill St. Mark's churchyard—they say Peter Stuyvesant is buried here on what once was his land, with the only true east-west street in Manhattan that once was his driveway—I try to catch a character that seems out of place. ...everyone in that group acts if that woman doesn't exist ...he's been in that spot too long ...is his body completely above ground? I used to search out for ghosts. I visited places people told me they were seen ...jump around corners and in front of mirrors, trying to catch one unawares, lost in the past.
I never saw anything though as I grew older and those around me passed away... the loss of their love, their comfort, even their simple presence ...becoming a never ...becoming that person that I once knew being lowered into the ground ...covered with a stone ...my path following their corpses into the silent, cold dirt becoming clearer and closer. No scares, no ghosts, no shocks, just the utter helplessness as death continues to fill my life. I notice someone watching me from outside the gates.
