I was headed to Mike McAndrews book opening. Faces of Port Townsend. It was just past noon and as of yet I hadn’t had my first Jameson. I thought about Sirens and the Pourhouse but then the whispering started.

I had slept along the waterfront, hammock strung between two trees. Port Townsend has the most beautiful natural lighting I thought as I had my morning smoke while the stars shown bright and all across the night sky. A natural palette for an Artist.

I never used to wake so early like I do now. Life goes full circle as time passes. Hanging on to baggage as time weighs its footprint. That’s when the whispering started.

“Welcome to Port Townsend. Up kind of early?”

“I like the sounds of 3 in the morning. Smells better, thinking is more clear.”

“You are fine. I heard a bit different drummer as well. I tell you a light playing Saxophone at 3 in the morning beat any cup of coffee I ever had. Let me breathe. You know, I heard dead folks could talk with you. Seeing is believing.”

“Scared the bejesus out of me.”

“I imagine, we did,” lightly glancing. “I’m still shaking my head. We first started hearing that Mike, Mike McAndrew had a friend who could talk to us deaduns’ and of course believing was something else. Then we started listening and reading. Pete, Pete Toyne by the way.”

“Dead folks are the nicest people I’ve met. Hanson.”

“I’ll leave you to your quiet but we got a little celebration planned for after the reading at the UnderTown.”

“What a warm, comfortable place. Nice brick and the lighting could relax sore eyes. Closed I see.”

“You’ll find locked doors can’t stop dead folks. You can’t leave Port Townsend, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Well, why would you? Life is a prism and we see our fingerprints all over the people left behind. The living faces of Port Townsend make us dead folks proud. Tell them thanks for me would you?”

I saw a flickering light, mutton chop like sideburns and big black Orbison glasses without the tint. He laughed and said he would see me later.