Chasing Ghosts :: Personal Narrative Writing

Chasing Ghosts A rather unnatural wind would blow through our town. We used to sit around the Sunday dinner table and recite prayers from the Bible after my mother had cleared the dishes. But first, in silence we would stare at the dark brown swirls of color in the wood, resting our chins on crossed arms. We could hear the grate and grind of metal forks and knives against plates as my mother soaped the dishes in the kitchen. The hiss of the faucet would stop, and after the sound of her cotton apron’s catching on the splintery wall, the apron left hung to dry, she would emerge from the swinging door, the kitchen light flashing like a strobe into the dining room with each swoop of the door’s swing, yawning open then snapping back shut, on and off, on and off. She would seat herself back at the table, her chair complaining with a low creak and moan as she sat. My father, meanwhile, would be off staring into the cornfield, always inspecting those rows that stood at-the-ready, motionless for miles. Would you like to read tonight, Luke? I know this is one of your favorite stories. This was not a question, so much as a command disguised as thrilling proposition. With silent obedience I would thumb to the desired verse, flipping page by page in order to stall for as long as possible. The whole time she would watch me, her head clamped into rigid position as if her graying hair, having pulled itself into a tight bun, had also cinched itself around her neck muscles. After an interminably long interval, she would utter words of salvation and great joy. Thank you Luke. That was wonderfully read. We would transfer ourselves onto the couch by the television. Father Morrissey would be on. Out the corners of my eyes, I would catch patches of light and color throbbing across the screen. I would stare out the window into the silent boredom that would drape itself over the town with every nightfall. My father would catch me, Luke, watch the television, you will not do this Christian family shame, but I knew that he was as indifferent as I was. From past the miles of drab houses and empty fields and speechless crops, I would wait for it, for anything, to come. At night, while our parents slept, my brother and I would talk.