When two ghosts come from different pasts to inhabit the same house, do they even see each other?
Does one of them wander through the rooms, watching the light, wondering how she got here when it is clearly not the space she was meant for? Does she get annoyed at finding the kitchen fan on every time she gets out of the shower, when it had been off when she got in, clicking it to “off” again, just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before?
Does the other ghost ignore the stacks of paper, the dishes, and the grime on the windows, but clean the gutters four times a year? Did he die by drowning in that last lifetime, in a building that flooded, no means of escape, the water reaching over his head, nostrils raised, condemning him to fear moisture forever and ever, always safeguarding, no nose plugs or plumbers, just keep the gutters clean and the water won’t get in through the walls?
Does she examine each sunbeam, looking for the warm corner to hide? Is she that sort of ghost — the kind that rides on the dust particles instead of shadows? She strokes the fur of the cat stretched out beside the window, telling it, “You are just like me, except you really think you belong here. You believe this is really yours.”
Like many ghosts, is he attached to broken old things, like the desk with the drawers whose fronts have fallen off? Will he become angry when the humans in the house take the pink ruler out of the drawer with no front on it and forget to put it back? And when the humans replace the desk, will he think the new one is for him, or continue to float around the dining room looking for the ruler, bewildered by the change?
How long will she examine the scrubby, scraggly juniper tree by the front door, thinking it would be much nicer if it were gone and instead there was a pergola arching over the space, with trumpet vines or honeysuckle growing over it, and a nice window over that to let more light in, but the siding is worn and why don’t these people take care of this place better? And perhaps it’s too exhausting, too much, and maybe she will vent her frustration by moving the other ghost’s calculator or leaving water pooling at the base of the kitchen sink faucet.
How long can two beings drift past each other, and when they do really see each other, will they be astonished? Annoyed? Relieved? Or will they finally drift away?
