My Wife, the Ghost

My wife died three years ago,
but apparently,
nobody told her.

She still sleeps on my side of the bed,
complaining that I steal the blankets
from a woman who no longer has a body.

Every morning,
I hear her footsteps in the kitchen.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Then the kettle screams,
the cupboard opens by itself,
and a ghostly voice shouts,

“Your coffee is getting cold!”

I remind her gently,
“You're dead, darling.”

She answers,

“And you're still terrible at remembering things.”

So I drink my coffee.

Marriage, apparently,
has no expiration date.

She follows me everywhere.

When I go shopping,
the automatic doors open before I reach them
because she walks through first.

The cashier watches me arguing with empty air.

“Do we need bread?”

Silence.

“Darling?”

A loaf suddenly flies into my trolley.

“Fine. Two loaves.”

Sometimes she sits beside me
while I watch television.

Her favorite chair remains empty,
but somehow it sinks beneath her invisible weight.

When something funny happens,
I hear her laugh.

When something sad happens,
the room becomes colder.

And when I fall asleep alone,
I sometimes feel a hand
resting gently on my chest.

Not frightening.

Familiar.

Like a heartbeat
that forgot how to beat.

One night I asked her,

“Why haven't you gone?”

The curtains moved
though every window was closed.

Her voice whispered,

“Because you haven't.”

I laughed.

“You're a ghost.”

“And you're my husband.”

“That doesn't explain anything.”

“It explains everything.”

Then the bedroom door opened.

She walked through it,
or perhaps the door simply remembered her.

Her perfume filled the room.

Her favorite song began playing
from a radio I had unplugged twenty years ago.

I felt something cold touch my cheek.

For a moment,
I could almost see her.

Not pale.

Not frightening.

Just my wife.

The woman who used to steal my shirts,
burn the toast,
hide my keys,
and kiss me when she thought I was angry.

I whispered,

“I still love you.”

The room went quiet.

Then something hit me on the head.

My old pillow.

Her voice came from the darkness.

“I know.
Now stop talking and go to sleep.”

I smiled.

Some people say ghosts
haunt houses.

Mine never haunted the house.

She haunted me.

And strangely,
I never wanted an exorcist.

Because after all these years,
I finally understood something:

Death had taken her body,

but somehow,

it had forgotten to take her place beside me.