I close my eyes and I can hear the same voices, saying what they said - it feels like years ago and yet they're still there, waiting for me as they will ever wait for me. I can still see the ghosts of the people I was with in this room, talking to me and watching me, and laughing and crying with me. I place my hands on the cold metal of the door's push-lever behind me and keep my eyes closed... I can still hear my brothers standing on each side of me, joking around while we waited for our turn. I can hear a voice I grew to know well in those days, coaching me and helping me to learn, helping me to teach myself. I can feel my hands being taken by two friends who my heart grew to love so much better afterward. I feel my head being raised, and a hand under my chin. I take the draping fabric through my fingers, pulling it off of my head softly and forgetting that it's not truly there anymore because I can still hear the ghostly rustle as it glides down from my shoulders.
There is laughter, so much laughter - but I can't forget the tears: they're still dampening my cheeks, sliding and dripping off my nose. I can't forget the way I squeezed those two hands in mine as if they were my only hope, my life lines, or the way I saw it all unfolding before my eyes... it was happening... I could see it, even if all anyone else ever saw was a blank, meaningless wall on the other side. I can't forget the terrified determination, or the resigned grief.
This room is full of ghosts, these ghosts of mine.
And these ghosts - such beautiful, cherished, tortured ghosts! - are fraught with memories.