Calling the Spirit of Marilyn Monroe

When I was in middle school my friends and I would conduct séances, holding hands and burning smelly bath and body works candles, the whole nine, and call the spirits of those we wished to talk to one of them being Marilyn Monroe. Needless to say, we were not successful and we were not able to commune with the spirit of that gorgeous, gutsy babe we all admired so [in my room I still have a poster of marilyn lifting weights in jeans and what must have past as a sports bra fifty years ago, just to inspire me]. I have never successfully invoked the spirit of anyone, may have something to do with the fact that I haven’t tried since I was fourteen. But I have recently resurrected the spirit of something else that had been gone for a long time, my friendship with those very ladies with whom I tried to contact the beyond. I find that the only thing different is a few drivers’ licenses and the ability to purchase alcohol legally (very welcome additions).
The strange and sometimes creepy thing about life is that there is no such thing as closure. People cross the barriers of your life like ghosts, more effectively, in general, than Marilyn Monroe into mine. Some people are Kasper the friendly ghost and others haunt your dreams. This is how things work sometimes, people come into your life and leave and return completely out of context, you are different and they are different and there is a new president or it isn’t winter anymore. Nowhere is this “out of context” phenomenon stranger than as a teacher.
So I’m sitting at Papillion (independent coffee shop, Pullman people can think Daily Grind) by a large window, drinking my decaf and working on the next great American novel when a former student of mine we’ll call him John Cone, basically limps by the widow, carrying a guitar case. This kid is 12, major behavior issues (let’s just say I sent him to see the Assistant Principal more than once), skinny, short, mousy brown so he could probably fit inside this guitar case after a few yoga sessions and he is carrying it like it’s full of bricks. He passes the window and then takes a few steps backwards, drops the case outside and comes in the door. He squints at me like I’m a mirage and says “Is it you?” “Yes it is I, Hi John.” I say. He raises his hand, waves at me from no more than three feet way. I ask him if he’s taking guitar lesson. And as he is turning to go out the door he says: “Yeah, just wanted to see if it was you, weird.” He picks up his guitar and continues making his way down the street.
I’ve been told that when a school year ends it can feel like someone you love has died. People who were an important part of your everyday life are suddenly and abruptly one day gone. And how weird is it to see a ghost on a Tuesday. I have found this to be true. I do get a little pang in my stomach when I look at my wall where I keep the artwork some of them gave me. I do feel a little bit like I saw a ghost today, but it is less like someone dying and more like breaking up with someone. This is how I feel about my friends I’ve gained and lost and gained again along the way.
It is strange to see old students, old friends, old loves, but it lets you know how far you’ve come. I’ve been allowed to see how different I am and how differently I feel about people and issues that used to be in my life. I now know what I have over my 16 year old self, my 19, 21 year old self, even me from a few months ago. So Marilyn my favorite blonde, the one I always wanted to be like with her famous attitude and penchant for my favorite U.S. President cross on over from the other side anytime, let history fold back over on itself yet again and breathe new life.