A Chemistry of Spirits

Santa Fe is really the city of my dead sister. There’s no memory I have of this place that does not include her, though she lept into the afterlife over 30 years ago. This building used to be where the copy shop was, where she would spend hours and hundreds of dollars making collages on their “new” color xerox machine. She had come here at the height of her creative powers, leaving the love of her life behind in New York City. She seemed happy here. Ascendant. Blooming in her art and her self-expression. I was in my twenties when I would come visit, she was ten years older.

I came for the skiing and a free place to stay. That’s what brothers and sisters did, offer free shelter and meals and hugs. She was no longer into “downhill” she said. Yes, so I would drive up the mountain in the dawn hour with a friend or alone, and ski, and return to share a meal with my favorite person on the planet.

I wonder if her presence here today, this day, is merely chemicals in my brain being triggered by sights, sounds, and smells of the winter mountain air. Or is there some spiritual essence of her that surrounds me more clearly, talks to me more frequently, when I’m in her city. New York is different. My mom was there too. My high school adventures on Christmas or Spring break, running amok in the city with Dwight.

Are our ghosts merely brain chemistry triggered by memories and sensual inputs?

Read more Short-Short Stories from John.