October is here, the season of ghosts.
Walking to the station, I am past at the foot of the hill by a red hatchback, driven by a ghost. The same shade of blonde, carelessly cast back in a ponytail. The same small frame, betraying the constant, nervous energy within. The same expression, lips held between the teeth in pensive concentration. Just a flash, a transient few frames as the car past by, up the hill. I was a little shaken, and checked myself, turned and pointlessly looked at the hatch as it swung round the corner, beyond view.
We see what we expect to see, and what we want to see. It could have been her, 20 years older, but what are the odds? And what if it was? There was no moment of brake lights as she stopped and backed up, asking for directions. No scrunch of gravel as, five minutes later, the car pulled alongside and the voice asked if I was who she thought I was. And there was no expectation that there would be, these things only happen in films, don’t they?
Until they happen to you. Rare and shocking, they hold you in the lamps beam, stumbling to even grasp what’s suddenly happening before choosing to grasp the moment, or let it slip away.
When they do happen, whatever the consequences, the disruption and turmoil, grasp them, grasp with both hands and hold on tight. Such moments are rare in our brief lives.
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