I have a shiny bike. It’s pink with a little white wicker basket. I call it the grandma bike. So no, I’m not a cycling enthusiast. You won’t see me hunched over the handlebars wearing slick shorts on and a go-to hell helmet while looking fierce and cool at the same time. I’m the one in baggy jean shorts who’s wearing an uncool helmet. There’s also a sandwich and a bottle of water in the white basket. My mission is to relax and enjoy a pleasant afternoon.
On warm spring days, I love to ride to the nearest cemetery. The Gardens of Stone is quiet. Dare I make a clichéd comment and say that it’s peaceful with the dead? The cemetery I visit on my pink bicycle is, or used to be, segregated. There’s the Jewish section, the Confederate section and the old-moneyed section with its elaborate angels and intricate tombs. The roads beyond the black wrought iron gates are narrow and windy. The headstone engravings, are sometimes brief, at times tragic and endearing or enlightening.
Sadly, I haven’t been there in a while. The last few times I biked there, I didn’t feel quite alone.
The quiet and solitude that used to be comforting escalated into some creepy what-ifs. Like, what if my solitude is solely my perception? Is someone, or something, reading me as I read the headstones? Remember, humans can only see a limited spectrum of light. Or let’s examine part of a prayer, “…we believe in all that is seen and unseen”.
Am I in an enviable position because I still breathe? Worse, what if some spirit attaches itself to me and I end up taking it home?
Did you know that ghosts not only attach themselves to homes or things, but they can also attach themselves to people? Maybe one sunny day a nasty ghost might decide to cling to a frequent bike rider just to have a little fun?
Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve been there…