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I put down my last bag in the middle of the wooden planked floor.  I still didn’t know where all the light switches were, so the moonlight provided some assistance in seeing.  I took a moment to take it in.  After a a sigh half of relief half reality setting in, I took from my canvas grocery bag the little bottle of prosecco my girlfriend had given me with the instructions not to open it until the time was right– and I would know when that time was.

I took it with me to the roof, not bothering with a glass.  I wouldn’t have been able to locate one anyway.  It was a foggy October night.  Cold enough for a sweater, not yet a jacket.  I stared across the East River at Manhattan, barely glittering in the evening haze.  You’d warned me that you wouldn’t be around this month.  I tried not to take it personally, but I’d be lying if I hadn’t hoped that you’d be a beautiful surprise.    There for me when I’d needed a word of encouragement, a reason to push through when I was exhausted.

I made the move all on my own.  I moved everything I’d lived with for the last four and a half years across the bridge in hopes that once things settled, you’d be a part of this new adventure.  This new home.  This next chapter.

It’s funny how a home can be haunted by ghosts who never lived there.  Deceased memories of moments that never even happened.  Deaths of “could’ve been.”

But you never showed up.  I don’t think you even asked how the move went or if I needed any help.  So, when a real ghost came back to haunt me, I let him back in.  He asked how I was every morning.  Told me goodnight every evening.  He came without me having to call.  A ghost took your place, but you’ve never stopped haunting me.