Ghost Story

We went out this morning, the dog and I. We went for a run with the iPod on and the dog, invigorated by the cool late September air and by remembering that he's still a puppy after all in spite of his size, straining at his leash. We ran up the trail and through the streets, a mile, two miles. Running, and running through the day ahead in our heads. The work to be done, the plans to be made. Running through decisions and questions and issues. We have issues, the dog and I.

We ran to the park, to the center of it, away from the streets and I took the leash off, illegally. The center of the park is low and there was thick fog settled in like a down comforter on a bed on a day colder than this one. This song shuffled around on the iPod, an Irish song from a film soundtrack. A tune, I guess and not a song technically, because there are no words. And I watched the dog run because the air was cool and he's a puppy after all and running is what the day was for. He would disappear and reappear in the fog as he ran, chasing the ghosts of other dogs. And then in the fog as I listened to that Irish tune from the film, other ghosts came. The ghosts of fathers, of brothers, of ancestors. The ghosts of old friends. The ghosts of soldiers, because this particular park was once a battlefield. The ghosts of lost love and old regret, along with the ghosts of what still might be possible if it can solidify before the sun erases it with the rest of the fog. The fog was ghosts.

It's autumn, of course. Time for ghosts.

When the dog had bravely chased away all the ghost dogs, I reattached the leash and we shook off the other ghosts. The sun was coming up and they were scattering with the fog. Our feet were wet now because when fog and ghosts melt, water is left in the grass were they used to be. We ran home, listening to a different song.