Ghosts

I’m sitting on the edge of a queen-sized bed next to my deceased mother at the River Inn Hotel in Georgetown, Washington, DC.

The TV glows with Dr. Who, flickering between big pharma ads and the comforting capitalism of Domino’s pizza commercials. Volume low, lights dim.

The Queen Suite lives up to its name, fully stocked kitchen, a writing desk perched at a wide-paned window overlooking the city… and, apparently, its own hauntings.

From the eighth floor, the city laid out in a soft winter haze. My eyes landed across the rooftops, on a structure blurred by static snow flurries between past and present. The Watergate Hotel.

Not watching, exactly… but listening

The Watergate sat there like a mausoleum of whispers. Its ghosts of stitched together tape recordings murmured beneath the hush of snowfall.

Ghosts lived there too, just a different kind.

Yet, somehow, their silent presence made the shimmering ones in my room feel… well, expected. In this city, after all, everyone’s haunted by something.

I glance at the couch. My father sits there, content and quiet. Ever gentle, loving, his smile softly tuned to whatever station I’m on.

Earlier that night, I made my way down to the lobby in pajamas and slippers to pick up my late-night pizza. The lobby had that peculiar after-hours hum: distant phones, the echo of rolling suitcases and snow being stomped from boots, long gone.

While we made the usual pleasantries, exchanging cash for pizza, the delivery guy handed over the box like a sleepy priest offering communion.

On the walk back to my room, I passed through something. A current. A masculine presence. Not hostile, just observant.

The air thickened for a moment. Like I’d walked through the memory of a man who’d once stayed here and never really left. I paused. Noticed the energy with a simple kind of respect, and kept walking.

I had pizza. He’d understand.

Back in the suite, the warmth hit me like a hug. Outside, snow brushed the window like white iridescent fireflies.

I performed the sacred ritual of the solo traveler: Two slices. A glass of Sauvignon Blanc. A towel spread neatly across the bed. I swapped out the Spotify jazz for something brainless on cable. Dimmed the lights. Settling in for my in suite picnic.

Excited for the next day, Rothko at the National Gallery, a walk through the snow-muffled mall to view the monuments and take in the fresh air winters air.

Click. TV on.

Thud. Pizza on towel.

Because there…bathed in the television’s glow…sat my mother. Or a version of her. A shimmer.

I only saw her from behind, but I knew it was her. That familiar, almost mythical blonde hair, the color of ripened wheat at dusk. Thick, shoulder-length.

She sat in peace, watching Dr. Who

I jumped out of bed. Mom?

That’s when I first saw Dad, sitting on the couch, watching the whole scene unfold with calm amusement. As if this happened all the time. The three of us chilling together watching TV in the afterlife.

“Dad?” I said. He just nodded with his beautiful, crooked smile.

Mom turned to me with that amusement in her eye, equal parts love and sass. “Relax,” she said. “Enjoy your pizza.

So I did.

Obeying my mothers words,

As I climbed back into bed, with a slice in hand, wine at my side, the room filled with something deep and old. Familiar.

A warmth I hadn’t felt since infancy, pure, protected, motherly love. No questions. No explanations.

Just…love

Like a child, I inched closer to her. Sneaking glances at Dad. Every time our eyes met, he seemed to say, we’ve missed you too.

Those green eyes, both of theirs, so different, yet unmistakably them…and so clear and full of light.

I sipped my wine. Took another bite.

And there it was: peace, without guilt.

No need to narrate it. No need to make it mean something. Just the quiet joy of being in a room with your parents, eating pizza, watching TV.

Just being. Being in love. Being Love.

Time softened. The edges blurred.

And then, I noticed it.

Her shimmer dimming. Dad’s form softening.

“Please, don’t go,” I said,

They didn’t answer. They didn’t need to.

Their smiles were enough. Warm. Knowing. Like lantern light in snowfall, faint, but certain.

Even as they faded away, the room stayed full.

The love didn’t leave. It just changed shape.

As if they knew of my recent cancer diagnosis, their eyes said it all: “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to get through this, we are here with you”

It was palpable, the strange, radiant beginning of whatever comes next…