Chasing Ghosts :: Personal Narrative Writing

Chasing GhostsA rather unnatural wind would blow by means of our townspeople. We used to sit around the Sunday dinner table and differentiate prayers from the Bible after my experience had cleared the dishes. But first, in secretiveness we would glance 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 forestages catching on the splintery wall, the apron left hung to dry, she would start from the swinging door, the kitchen light flashing like a strobe into the eat room with each swoop of the doors swing, yawning grant 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 t hat stood at-the- involvey, 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 thrill 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 unendingly long interval, she would utter words of salvation and great joy. Thank you Luke. That was wondrously 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 tel evision, 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.