Dear Journal
I am haunted by many things in my life. There are scar that wrap around my body, old broken bones and bruises that never really healed up. There were words of hatred that people spewed at me. Still none of those ghosts compare to the dead that haunt heart an constantly reappear in my dreams.
I remember two little furballs, not far apart in age. My fluffy darlings, both mutt females, from different parents. However, they treated each other like sisters. Playful and protective of each other, but suspicious of strangers. I would walk them both, when I came to visit. Up so early in the morning just to spend time with both of my pups, Laura and Snuggles.  How surprised when I came home to visit one week. I can’t say how long it had been. It seems like years has passed since my last visit. My first instinct was to see my little girl. Even though in dog years they were old ladies.  I made it there ready to play. Only to find an empty doghouse and vacant leash. My poor snuggles lost to the ravages of age. No one had bothered to tell me. Had I been so long gone that they had forgotten or was I to blame? I spent the next few hours with my other pup. Then I disappeared again of into the vapors of my life. I managed to return a few more times to see her, Laura, who had been my very first pet. Still like everything else she passed away. In my absence I was uninformed once again. Once in a while I find myself teared up. When I see a little puppy playing in the field or an old dog sitting lazily in the sun. I feel a tinge of guilt for not being there, when I should.
Many years before that, there was a little blonde haired boy; we were friends off and on. It was during one of those off times, when a bus he was on crashed. He was thrown from his seat, through the glass window. They say his last words where spent in asking if everyone else was okay. He didn’t even make it to his teens. I was lazy and selfish, and chose to not go to his funeral, now I wish I had because every once and while he walks in my dreams.
But the ghost who haunts my dream most frequently is an old man. I knew him all of my life. He payed for my birth. In a house full of women he was a quiet fixture, who would tickle me every time I went for a hug. Looking back I can tell for a fact he was haunted by specters of his own. Still, when I visited there was always a smile for me, and when I needed it there were words of encouragement. He never told me he was disappointed me and seldom raised his voice to me. If I was bad there was a quick swat of a flyswatter, but then it was over. We watched the rain together; we sat and stared at the stars together. We were truly kindred spirits, me and my grandpa. I wish I could say he died swift and in his sleep. But his life was taken away in bits in pieces. First he got diabetes, then he ended up in a home, such a proud animal now locked in a cage but he never complained. Then he had to lose a leg. For eighty years he had been strong and independent man. Now he was reduced to only weekly visits to his own home. Still, he never complained. The last day he was alive I saw him in the hospital the doctor said he was getting better. I kissed him on the forehead and told him I loved him. He said thank you. I felt ashamed. I must have failed him in some way for him to be grateful for that one pronouncement of love. Had I kept my feeling for him to myself or forgotten to remind him enough. I let it pass I was certain I would see him again, then I would tell him again, and each time after I would do the same.
When we left the hospital, my grandma said he would die today. I argued with her. The doctor had told us he was getting better. I failed to convince her. The next day I got the call. I ran a hot shower and sat in the tub and cried. I did not go to see my family. I was selfish.
Now more often then naught I see him again and again. He has both of his legs.