Inspired by the poem „Antigonish“ by Hughes Mearnes

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Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there. At first while passing him I almost didn’t see him, but something made me turn around and there he wasn’t.

You might call me crazy hearing this. How can I have met someone that wasn’t there. And I might agree with you if I hadn’t clearly noticed him not being there.

I should explain. It was like there should have been a man. Like when you are walking into your favorite cafe and the barista who has been there the last 10 years every day suddenly wasn’t there. The clear feeling of absence. That is what I saw on the stair. There was supposed to be a man, but he wasn’t there.

At the time I shrugged it off. I was tired and must have been hallucinating things.

Just that he wasn’t there again today, I wish, I wish he’d go away…

„Why do you want someone who isn’t there to go away? They already are not there after all?“

At the question I looked at my therapist. The non-appearance was unnerving to me.

They didn’t seem to understand. I knew it was a mistake bringing it up…

„Our time for today is up. Maybe next time we can elaborate on this.“

I just nodded and got up exchanging the normal pleasentries.

…

„Have you seen this man again?“

I wanted to correct them, tell them that the fact was that he wasn’t there. That that was the issue. But actually…

Yes. When I came home last night at three, the man was waiting there for me.

Absentmindedly I did greet him as if he really was there, was someone who was supposed to be there, someone I expected to be there to greet me. But when I looked around the hall. I couldn’t see him there at all.

For a second I could have sworn he was there, but then again: he wasn’t. He so clearly wasn’t there. Like negative space. I found tears welling up in my eyes and a deep stepping pain of loss in my gut. I could not identify why…

„That is very interesting. Do you need a tissue?“

My eyes had filled with tears again, recalling what had happened, but I wiped them away in anger.

I just want to shout at him to go away. Go away, don’t you come back anymore!

But how to shout at someone who is not there?

…

„Have you tried what we talked about last time?“

I was tired, so tired. I had ignored the absence of the man. I did try to distract myself, to not acknowledge how clearly he wasn’t there. And at first I thought it would work. I tried to avoid the rooms I had not seen him in as much as possible and some days there actually was no one there nor not there when I was crossing the hallway.

And I thought that the nonexistent man had finally left, when I saw it. The door to the kitchen was swinging open. At first I thought it was the wind, maybe I had left a window open. But then he did not come through it. It was the first time I saw him interacting with anything that physically is there. It didn’t make sense. I hated how it didn’t make sense. I hated how something about him not being there made me feel a deep sense of grieve.

I shouted at him to go away, go away and upon seeing him not reach for the door I added: please don’t slam the door, before not hearing the kitchen door slam close.

„Are you sure that it wasn’t just the wind?“ the therapist asked.

I admitted that it could be, but to myself I was sure that the man clearly hadn’t been there, and that he was the one who so familiarly had slammed the kitchen door. Something about telling the absence to not do it felt like a well trained piece of dialogue.

…

„Let’s talk about that man, have you seen him again?“

I had stopped fighting it. I didn’t want to continue talking about it, being told that I am imagining things. So I answered no. It wasn’t a lie. After all, the man was not there.

My therapist smiled and said: „Good. I am glad you managed to finally accept reality.“

I just nodded, not mentioning that last night I saw upon the stair, a little man who was not there. It seemed to be but a boy, maybe a teenager. It was hard to tell with him not being there. He wasn’t there again today, accompanied by the other absent man. Oh, how I wish, they’d go away!