I've been listening to Jenny Boylan's memoir "I'm looking through you: Growing up haunted" in my car, and not for the first time, its got me thinking about my own collection of ghosts.

There's my grandmother, who I gave lemon kisses with as a kid, a trick she would fall for again and again, just to see me smile.

There's my grandfather. Stern and strong on the outside, but there was a lot of kindness there too. I mostly remember him for his horses, and for his stating of outrageous opinions just to see if someone would argue with him. He said he did this because he always learned more from the people who disagreed with him, as opposed to those who agreed.

There's my dad. I mostly remember the whole he left when he died, rather than the man himself. Still, I find myself often wishing I could have just one conversation with him now, to tell him I dont blame him for the depression that killed him, and introduce him to the daughter he never got a chance to meet.

And lastly, there's Todd - a strange, sad boy, who managed to be at times either my best protector or my worst enemy. Sometimes, it feels like nothing's changed in that regard. Yet I often wonder what I would say to that boy, if he could see me now. I've written a letter to him, basically trying to assure him that .... it gets better, but that's not the only thing I wish to say. I'd want him to forgive me for having to transition, and maybe even be happy for me, if he could be.

Ah, well.