A Ghost Story

Namaste

A Ghost Story

by Crow Moon

I walked to a nearby fitness center, where I take yoga classes twice a week; I’d been doing this for over eight months. My mind was fixed on getting a good stretch, and I was looking forward to seeing my yoga teacher, Lora Finley, again.

Mrs. Finley was the best yoga instructor ever—so much so that she inspired me to take a leave of absence from work to pursue my 200-hour yoga teaching certificate. I couldn’t wait to share my recent accomplishment with her, yet I wanted to do it subtly; I didn’t want her to think I was trying to usurp her class or brag. But Mrs. Finley wouldn’t take it that way, I was sure, as I went along with the certificate in my backpack and a rolled-up yoga mat under my arm. No, she would be proud of me—and I wanted to thank her for her inspiration.

The park bench, which is normally vacant, at the midway point of my journey was occupied by an elderly man. I regarded him briefly as I went along. He was dressed in a nice suit, and what hair he had left was neatly combed.

“Going to yoga class?” he called out.

I nodded and kept going. Could what I was doing have been any more obvious? I checked my watch. It was 10:45 AM.

With a smile on his face, the old man said, “You’re going to be a fine yoga teacher, young man—a very fine one.”

I stopped and turned around. “Excuse me?” At that point, no one but my wife knew that I had completed my teacher training. I hadn’t even celebrated it on social media.

He smiled warmly and said, “You’re going to be wonderful.”

I didn’t want to be late for class, but I couldn’t let this go. “Who are you?” I asked.

He lifted his his eyes and said, “Oscar. Namaste.”

I simply said, “Have a good morning.”

“You’re going to be great, young man….”

I continued my short walk to the fitness center, went inside, changed clothes in the locker room, and walked upstairs to the yoga studio. As usual, I’d arrived well-ahead of the regular students.

Upon entering the room, I caught a wonderful view of the mountains through the large windows as I prepared to put down my backpack and mat to get ready for class. It was then I noticed that Mrs. Finley wasn’t there. In her place was the most un-Zen guy ever; he was short, stocky, and screamed all-business. The name tag pinned to his shirt read Manager.

“Are you the sub?” he asked before I could even sign in.

“Excuse me?”

He looked at me like I was wasting his time. “Are you the sub? Mrs. Finley can’t teach today, so she requested a sub. Is that you?”

I said, “Well, I do have a teaching certificate, but I didn’t know anything about—“

“Then you’re the sub,” he said shortly. “I’ll just need to see your credentials.”

“Sure….” The way this day was shaping up was less than the little slice of peace I’d come to get. I was still slightly unnerved by the old man on the bench. Then there was the unexplained absence of Mrs. Finley and some gruff, thick-necked man to deal with. Above all, I was about to teach my first class without any prior notice! Bewildered, I showed him my certificate.

He said, “Okay. You’re good to go. Just stop by the front desk on your way out to fill out some paperwork so we can cut you a check.”

“Sure,” I said. “By the way, why isn’t Mrs. Finley teaching today?

“She had a family emergency,” he grunted. The studio door opened. In walked my classmates—who were soon to be my first students. “Be sure to stop by the front desk.”

I positioned my mat at the front of the studio—which was a sudden change for me—and waited for everyone to settle in and put their mats down. After explaining that I was subbing, I started my first class with everyone in easy pose while I frantically contemplated a theme for the opening meditation. I stole from Oscar’s words and said, “You are wonderful. All of you are wonderful.”

My first time teaching turned out to be a lot better—and a lot less awkward, considering the circumstances—than I’d imagined, and I pondered that on my walk to the bus stop. Part of me wanted to thank Oscar for his inspiration, but he wasn’t sitting on the bench as I began my journey home. But he remained on my journey, I found out, as the bus driver announced that there would be a detour on the route due to a nasty accident earlier in the day.

Later that evening, I learned by browsing local news online that a pedestrian was struck by a driver while crossing a street on my route to work. The pedestrian’s name was Oscar Finley; he was pronounced dead at 7:14 AM.

That weekend, I read Oscar’s obituary. He was survived by two children, three grandchildren, and a loving wife of forty-three years—Lora Finley.