Weathered Boards, New Mexico

What place is this? Why does it seem so familiar, and yet so strange? Each time I return, I place my hand on this weathered wood, feeling its rough texture. Each time I pull on the gate, the squeak of the rusty hinge is exactly the same. The walkway, the wall, the gate ... the same every time, down to the smallest detail. Just as I remember them.

But I can never force my feet to take those steps beyond the gate. Every time I try, I freeze, afraid of what I will find on the other side. I hear a mournful wail. Someone is begging for release -- release from the past. But the cry is in vain. Humanity's curse, and blessing, is that memories can never really be left behind. They remain as an empty monument to loss.

Each time, I realize my visit is only a dream. I have not really been here for many, many years. The gate itself is long gone, existing only in memory ... and in this photograph. And I realize the wail comes from no soul but my own. I forever mourn the fact that just as I can never really return, I can never really escape.

The ghost that haunts this place is me.