She likes to sit amongst the ghosts. The cemetery is a quiet haven. Trees cast shade on its borders, and flowers provide bits of color along its pathways.

Sometimes she walks along the rows, saying the names of the ghosts aloud to herself. But mostly she sits on the benches and watches the ghosts drift to and from the graveyard. She wonders where they go—to visit a family member and offer a feeling of comfort in that person's time of need? Or perhaps to hang out at the club and absorb the energy and excitement of youth?

Today is one of the days where she just sits. Her knee and her hip are both bothering her, and she doesn't want to make that worse.

A family is here, visiting a ghost they know, leaving new flowers by the gravestone. They are on the other side of the cemetery, though, and they probably won't notice her. That's okay.

Closer to her is a pair of ghosts, hovering above their headstones, talking animatedly. They might be siblings, or a parent and a child. One of them only arrived a few days ago, and they've been catching up ever since. It takes a lot of time to review your entire life with someone, especially when your memory has been made clear with death.

A clear memory would be nice. She has lost some of the memories of her childhood. But she still remembers her Harold, thankfully. He is buried in another state, but she has it in her will to be taken back and buried beside him. She doesn't have to worry about being separated from him in death, the way she is right now in life.

Her phone rings. It's her doctor, probably wanting to schedule her knee surgery.

She lets it go to voice mail. He can call back later.

A bumblebee buzzes past.

"You're here a lot," a voice says.

She looks up. A ghost is floating near her. Ghosts rarely talk to living people. She imagines it's because they're jealous of their functional bodies. Her body is becoming less functional by the day, though, so maybe that's why this ghost is talking to her.

"At first I couldn't tell if you were one of us or not," the ghost admits. "But you're close, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes," she says. "Rather close."

The ghost nods his insubstantial head. "When, do you think?" he asks. "When will you come join us?"

She gazes at the brightly colored flowers.

Then she smiles. "Soon, I'm sure," she says.