Ghosts

It feels a bit like autumn today.  It isn't just the rain, or the spiders busily spinning in every corner.  Every once in a while there is a hint of that crisp, fall smell on the breeze.  I've always loved autumn.  It has always felt so full of  possibility, like a beautiful new notebook with nothing in it but potential.  A fresh start.  It still does, but, as I've grown older, I find that with the fall comes a sense of loss, a hint of squirming discomfort, an inchoate longing for possibilities unexplored and potential unfulfilled.  I long for books unread, intellectual paths not followed, and passions unexplored.  I wish for words I never wrote and for songs I never sang.  I ache for the children I never had and the loves I've lost or never pursued at all.  It's almost pleasant, this pain. It's a sharp, sweet ache, a tightness in my throat and a fullness behind my eyes.  It's the prickle of unshed tears, the tingling sense of something that is not quite there.  It's the memory of things that never were.