Ghosts Are Full Here as the Hungry Half Moon Rises
PORTLAND REVIEW MARCH 2025 Prose, Poetry, and Art since 1956

And so am I, full with the imprints of time and memory. I am rich in soul, yet I’m hungry for more. It’s not a feast I want: I want what singer Sam Garrett wants, “More life, more blessings; more peace, more unity.” Through the years, I’ve discovered ghosts here in the ashes of people spread on the lake shore. By here, I mean “The Old-Style Place,” a cabin that has been in the family for fifty years. Rustic, well-built, no running water, no bathroom, just an outhouse.
In the spring, one chore involves cleaning the outhouse; this means removing snake skins, sweeping away mounds of spider webs, and mopping up dust. Many people would not like this place. Tonight, I note the silence and half-full Buck Moon, a cipher in the sky hiding behind branches of the large pines.
Honoring the remnants of life’s past is part of my yearly visit here, just as it was for those who left their relatives on the shore. Imprints remain from those who sat on the dock watching the western sun set over the lake. Many of them have passed on: my parents, a childhood friend, an uncle, a few aunts, grandparents, and the many others.
They’re all here. Tonight.
The evening moves at a slow summer pace, transitioning from dusk to dark when loons begin wailing and yodeling. The loon call has a mystical, otherworldly quality; I hear its echo all around this quiet lake and am convinced there is nothing else like it.