I'm not talking about X-files stuff here. The ghosts were subtle, mental, hidden. They came out at strange times, but always nailed me like a jackhammer.
Like the day I was making dim sum. I stood at the cutting board, mincing ginger and garlic as shrimp paste sat in the fridge and green onions sat in the sink. The whole house was ripe with Chinese food smells, and I loved it. I hadn't had a chance to cook like this for months, and I was having flashbacks to college dinner parties where I'd bring homemade shao mai and cha siu bao, when...
Grandma was there.
I just could tell. My old, Lithuanian grandmother was in the kitchen, wondering just what in God's name I was cooking. Why don't you make some tsepilenu, Adamoukis? What are those smells? What are you cutting up? It's so spicy!
And then she was gone. And it was okay.
I laughed to myself as I realized that no one had ever cooked foods like this in this kitchen before. It's mine now, but still somehow hers. I use her cutting board and pots and pans. I keep things in the birch cabinets that Papa built. I share it now with a ghost who doesn't quite know what I'm doing but doesn't mind, since I'm her grandson.