*Skype call tone*
*Skype answer tone*

[Spoken]
I don't know if you'll remember this
This was years ago, back when you were in
New England, for the summer
Clearing out your dad's place after he died

We were talking one night
Over Skype
I was in Madison, if I remember right
You were
On your childhood bed in your childhood room
Propped up by dusty stuffed toys
Taking these long, meditative hits from your dad's old pipe

And during these lulls in conversation
Whisps of pixelated, low bit-rate jazz would
Waft in from the kitchen
Where his records were kept
In permanent rotation

You told me
That for a while now
Whenever the sun went down, you'd taken to keeping the place as dark and familiar and welcoming as you could
Drifting from room to room by candlelight
Peering through the hallway mirror into the shadows over your reflection's shoulder
Hoping
To be haunted
*Skype end tone*

I never believed in ghosts
I mean, that said, whenever the train passes your flat
Even today, I still look up to see if you're there
Perched, muppet-like, at the upper floor window
Waving wildly down at a train full of strangers because you know I'm in among them, somewhere
Even though you haven't been there for six years

I'm reminded of something that I overheard, once, at a philosophy department function back in 2008, it must've been
Two professors discussing a theory that I have never been able to place
That our memories and our thoughts and our emotions can be argued to inhabit physical space
That we shed them in our wake
Like footprints in fresh concrete
And they stay precisely where we leave them
Waiting for us to come by this way again someday
Retrace them
Resurrect them, in a way

And I might be wrong, but I think that's what's happening here
That
Bittersweet image of you at the upper-floor window
Smiling
Waving
Is effectively the first stop on this train's route
The tracks pass directly through this memory, these thoughts, these emotions
On the way to Ardrossan Harbor from Glasgow Central to catch the six o'clock ferry
And today, especially
It is a welcome distraction
Because
I am going home for Christmas
For the first since my dad died
And that big old converted hotel by the sea that I grew up in
That I spent thirty-one consecutive Christmases in
Without fail
Sometimes with my grandparents, sometimes with my aunt and uncle
Twice with you, but always at the very least
My mum, my dad, and I
That house is going to have just two people in it for Christmas
For the first time since I've been alive

Two people
Tracking mud
Through the hallways
Trundling along as if on rails
With no choice
But to retrace footprints in the carpet from a long time ago
Some decades old
And
In doing so
Pass through memory
After thought
After cold, grey emotion like...
I don't know
Like a hundred thousand unwelcome guests
Crammed into the narrow corridors
Of our dark hotel by the sea

As I said
I don't believe in ghosts
But that doesn't matter, really
I don't think you did either
I think I'm about to find out what it actually feels like to be haunted