The Ghosts of Lime Kiln Road

Summon your demons, devils, and wraiths, visit moments of hurt and loss. Replay what might have been, wrestle with regrets, Do “if only” scenes haunt your past? I follow the faint ribbon of sand on Mackinac Island, lined with sugar maple tree, aspen and lilac. Wild lilly of the valley, its fragrant musk, from dusk to dawn, clings to lichen and headstone, in the old cemetery at the end of Lime Kiln Road. I am as ghostly as the local specters. The fine young military boy, eyes wild and strange, wandering across the old rifle range, striving to collect his remit. Payment for the murder he did not commit. Or darling Miss Biddle, only eight years old. They handed her Mama her green Christmas coat. Drowned when the ice cracked, no-one saw. Lost in a snowstorm on the island of Mackinac. Ghosts are so practical. They wander, they howl, always in the same place, always the same sound. Patient in time eternal, that their fate will dissolve or resolve. My earthly body moves through life, restless in my quest to change the past. Spirits moan, I am not lost. I close my eyes and dance with my ghosts.