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  • You're lucky to be alive, bro.

    I heard these words while riding my motorcycle home through dense California 101-South traffic. It wasn't derogatory. There was an air of commendation. Lucky to be alive…

    I kept the words in the back of my head, repeating over and over, as the commute dragged on. Somewhere out there was a maiden in black, for the first time, glistening ivory-white.

    11:34 PM, Evans, Georgia

    Driving roads in Georgia isn't like driving roads in California. Tall and obfuscative, the canopy of temperate trees hangs overhead. We drove on, my brother and I. Nearing home, in front of my old elementary school, there she was. Crossing the road in a glimmering nightgown of a dozen yesteryears past. A ghosting.

    My brother made no changes in his speed or approach. Slowly she crossed. Narrowly, we passed her as she took a step across the center lane divider. I turned my head round and gazed for a blink of an eye. Enraptured by the darkness, she shined. Moonlight was absent below the leafy overhang, yet she shined.

    What is it to be haunted?
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