I have a shiny bike. It’s pink with a
little white wicker basket. I call it the grandma bike. So no, I’m not a
cycling enthusiast. You won’t see me hunched over the handlebars wearing slick
shorts on and a go-to hell helmet while looking fierce and cool at the same
time. I’m the one in baggy jean shorts
who’s wearing an uncool helmet. There’s also a sandwich and a bottle of water
in the white basket. My mission is to relax and enjoy a pleasant afternoon.
On warm spring days, I love to ride to the
nearest cemetery. The Gardens of Stone is quiet. Dare I make a clichéd comment
and say that it’s peaceful with the dead? The cemetery I visit on my pink
bicycle is, or used to be, segregated. There’s the Jewish section, the
Confederate section and the old-moneyed section with its elaborate angels and
intricate tombs. The roads beyond the black wrought iron gates are narrow and
windy. The headstone engravings, are sometimes brief, at times tragic and
endearing or enlightening.
Sadly, I haven’t been there in a
while. The last few times I biked there,
I didn’t feel quite alone.
The quiet and solitude that used to be
comforting escalated into some creepy what-ifs. Like, what if my solitude is
solely my perception? Is someone, or something, reading me as I read the
headstones? Remember, humans can only see a limited spectrum of light. Or let’s
examine part of a prayer, “…we believe in all that is seen and unseen”.
Am I in an enviable position because I still
breathe? Worse, what if some spirit attaches itself to me and I end up taking
it home?
Did you know that ghosts not only attach
themselves to homes or things, but they can also attach themselves to people?
Maybe one sunny day a nasty ghost might decide to cling to a frequent bike
rider just to have a little fun?
Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve been
there…
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