Down in Cassadaga

I could see dead people

Down in Cassadaga I might see dead people. Aunt S sent me here, or suggested I go to connect with Mom. Or reconnect…in a very different way than we used to connect.

Down in Cassadaga I make an effort to find myself. Examining the glorified subculture full of predominantly white folks…and they all just want to share a moment with the dead.

I can’t decide if I genuinely like it here or am just fascinated by the tacit Floridian malaise I feel everywhere around me. It truly seeps into my shitty minestrone soup.

Here in Cassadaga that Malaise is exhausted by the collective yearning to connect with spirits who have left this lively plane and moved onto to…well I guess that’s it…moved on to what? I feel polarized by this question because it’s not really discussed here.

Here I came to speak with mom. But I’m terrified of what she’ll tell me. And terrified by this pressure to lead the conversation. I have to ask the questions. I have to call upon her spirit until she begins to linger on the table tops or chandeliers or whistling flames. I am the host of this fantastical encounter.

In it I don’t want to hear about the incident, or the pain or the wounds which sucked the life out of her loving heart. I’m not even sure exactly what I would like to hear from her. Maybe just the memories she saw flash in those last few moments before her breath became heavy and lifeless.

Today in Cassadaga I watched a man speak to his dead brother. He asked for forgiveness and whispered through his leaking eyes as the tables tilted, signalling the yes or the no from his brother who replied…and whatever he replied didn’t seem like enough. Patty told me “that sap comes here every week. just trying to get some closure i suppose. he keeps to himself, but i always bring him a coffee. triple triple. that’s three milks three sugars.” I felt sorry for him and told him to have a nice day as I crossed his smoky path in the parking lot.

When we were kids in Laval we used to make up stories about the ghosts who lingered in our house. On Halloween we would turn off all the lights in the house, gather around the table and light one candle. We would hold hands and make quiet wishes and whispers to the ghosts we imagined in our heads. Mom liked to tell us that when people died they became floaty bits of dismembered energy that glides around their ‘happy places’. So when the light would flicker or the clock would switch from 21:05 to 21:06, we would have successfully summoned a dead one.

Down in Cassadaga, I remember mom and fear the act of forcing her to come speak with me. But maybe someone else already has?

I feel a chill before I flick off my bedside lamp in my crusty little motel room down in Cassadaga.