I do not believe in ghosts, which is a shame. One can never know too many people, dead or alive. Of course, there are also people I knew in this life, who I would dearly like to see again.
Nontheless, in the apparition-free zone that is Itchy Ankle, I thought I saw my friend Andy walk past my bedroom window the other day. He appeared to be pushing an electric lawnmower–not cutting grass but rather wheeling it along the way you do with a vacuum cleaner before the cleaning actually starts. Back wheels. The cord was still wrapped at the side of the contraption. Andy was wearing his usual ratty white tank top and was walking his little bandy legged walk. He was carrying a glass of rose, the glass in his right hand, pressed against the handle of the lawnmower.
I mentioned how nice it had been to see Andy to his bereaved brother Barkis. “It was funny though” I said “Andy doesn’t drink rose”
“Perhaps he does now” said Barkis.
I am sure this is right. It makes perfect sense: in heaven, all the drinks will be pink.