I don’t believe in ghosts because I don’t want to. I hope the dead have better things to do than linger here like permanent spectators, never to be actors again.

How impotent to be a ghost — to see the hand reaching out for the scalding hot pan and not be able to scream, “Don’t touch that!” To see a loved one cry, broken hearted, and not be able to pat the shoulder. I hope the dead are not watching us.

I hope the dead are not listening to us, either. Catholics believe that the dead become our own personal saints, able to intercede with God on our behalf. I hope they aren’t relegated to that job.

It’d be like this — “Aunt Mary, I lost my car keys again. Can you just ask Jesus to give me a little help here? I’m late for work. Amen.”

After a while of toting and fetching for her yuppy nieces and nephews, Aunt Mary would want to say, “Find your own damn keys,” only she can’t because she’s in heaven and they don’t say four-letter words there.

I hope the dead have nothing to do with us. I hope they go on to fulfill their own hearts’ desires and that their dreams are born anew each day.

I hope the dead aren’t left to trod the same old ground but go on to discover new places, new friends, new loves.

I hope when they reach God, He says, “Well done, good and faithful servant. Now let’s set all that aside and move on, shall we?” And all the hurt, pain, fear, despair, loss is washed away and the soul becomes a new being — fresh and clean and alive.

Never a moldy old ghost.