My first encounter with a phantom was at the muddy bank of
Grandmother's pond. The wild vegetation that choked its surface was
in stark contrast to the shade who stood calf deep in its green
depths. It was my Great Uncle, whose life was as mundane as his
death. A man who was nothing but audience to the play of others, who
ignored adventure and opportunity like it was the holiday
correspondence of a distant cousin. A man who trudged to and from
work at the same time, and who swallowed the same conservative
measure of whiskey in the wasted time before bed every day. That is
why, perhaps, I merely tipped my hat to him at his uncanny appearance in the
pond. I interrupted his distraught attempt
at dialogue by turning towards Grandmother's estate, and the afternoon
tea that awaited me there.
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