Chasing Ghosts :: Personal Narrative Writing

Chasing GhostsA rather unnatural wind would blow through our town. We used to sit around the Sunday dinner party table and recite prayers from the Bible after my mother had cleared the dishes. But first, in silence we would inspect at the dark brown swirls of color in the wood, resting our chins on crossed arms. We could hear the grate and grind of metal forks and knives against plates as my mother soaped the dishes in the kitchen. The hiss of the faucet would stop, and after the sound of her cotton forestages catching on the splintery wall, the apron left hung to dry, she would emerge from the swinging door, the kitchen light flashing like a strobe into the dining way with each swoop of the doors swing, yawning open then snapping back shut, on and off, on and off. She would seat herself back at the table, her chair kick with a low creak and moan as she sat. My father, meanwhile, would be off staring into the cornfield, always inspecting those rows that stood at-the-ready, motionle ss for miles. Would you like to read tonight, Luke? I know this is angiotensin converting enzyme of your favorite stories. This was not a question, so much as a command disguised as thrilling proposition. With silent obedience I would feel to the desired verse, flipping page by page in order to stall for as long as possible. The whole time she would watch me, her head clamped into starchy position as if her graying hair, having pulled itself into a tight bun, had also cinched itself around her neck muscles. After an interminably long interval, she would utter words of salvation and great joy. thank you Luke. That was wonderfully read. We would transfer ourselves onto the couch by the television. Father Morrissey would be on. Out the corners of my eyes, I would catch patches of light and color throbbing across the screen. I would stare out the window into the silent boredom that would drape itself over the town with every nightfall. My father would catch me, Luke, watch the televi sion, you will not do this Christian family shame, but I knew that he was as indifferent as I was. From past the miles of drab houses and empty fields and speechless crops, I would wait for it, for anything, to come.At night, while our parents slept, my brother and I would talk.