Yin Poem by anais vionet

I see them in reflections - the orange juice glass at breakfast or my iPhone where they can pop, like notifications - I keep my phone face down.

They usually want to tell you something - how it was for them - their history. I discount these emotional messages - they come with the jester's assumption that I care - that I need the performance and will get involved.

"What are you doing? " My mom asks, as I'm taking all the shiny, mirror-like ornaments off the Christmas tree.
"The glare gives me a headache" I say, without stopping.
"Your Grandma does that too", she says, wiping her hands on a Santa-themed dish-towel.
"Really? " I say, but I know that and I know why.

I started having nightmares, when I was in first grade. My mom thought I had an overactive imagination but when she described it to my grandma, she soon showed up for a visit.

Over the next few weeks my Grandma told me about our "gift". About how we were both born on the same day, under a waning third moon, in Autumn. That we're both "Yins, " doxies (sweethearts)of the dead and that we could, at times, see and hear people who were between stops on their way to their after-lives.

That's why the dead parachute into my unused moments from reflective surfaces. They can be anxious or in despair - when their death is cruel or sudden but I'm an adolescent - I'm in school - what can I do? ?

The presence of water discourages them - which is perfect - can you imagine seeing spirits in the reflections of your bath? EEUUUWWW! You'll hardly ever see me without a water bottle or polarized sunglasses - which seem to break-up the images. I'll not be smothered in other people's afterlives.