Seeing ghosts

As I travel around town I often have the feeling that I'm seeing ghosts. Perhaps "ghosts" is not the right word. I'm seeing memories. I look off to the side as I barrel down the highway and there is M's house with the big picture window where she watched the snow and the birds and the dog. I go under an overpass and remember the road to R's small house. I think about his caregivers and the "family" he brought together and wonder how they are doing. I travel a road that I think is new - but wait - if I turn to the right doesn't that bring me to . . . what-was-her-name's house? I was only there one time but I can picture the couch where she rested, just inside the front door.

I remember the places, the roads, the furniture, where we sat and what we said, but I can't remember all the names. I remember this one's name and that one's caretaker. I remember the cat that sat and purred and cuddled up to my patient and the dog that barked as if I was the enemy coming onto his turf.

In the nursing home I pass by the rooms where I spent so much time. Now there are different names on the doors. The family pictures have been replaced by sports banners. The stuffed animal is gone. It doesn't look the same, but out of the corner of my eye I think I see . . . no . . . he's gone. It's an illusion, a wisp, a memory.

I don't really believe that the spirits of my patients are hanging around waiting to manifest themselves as I drive by, but my memories of them remain a part of my life. This is the road. There is the house. That was the room.

I remember. May their memory be for a blessing.