Ghost-busting

I was five, I said no,
I don’t want his name behind my name.
As if I sensed what was to come.
But the tree was rooted, or rather re-rooted.
And I grew thereby
proving perhaps his parenthood.
Uglier then uglier versions of me,
on me like a cheap suit.
Then you don’t rise from ashes
without having been in the fire.
My spirit surviving through
the ghost of who I was
vanishing as the old warthog’s ashes
splashed into the swamp
from the boardwalk at fisherman’s landing.

Writing RXercising.