I would suggest walking into a wall. If you pass through, you’re most likely a ghost. If you break your nose? Further investigation is warranted. 

Are your feet mud-stained? Are your tears saltwater or crude oil? Is there a wailing in your stomach? That bundle on your back  — is there a small city inside it? If you shear your head at sunset, does coarse hair blanket your eyes at sunrise? How did you arrive here? In the car of an unfaithful man? In the shriek of a night-owl? Are you now or have you ever been a dolphin? A wolf? A knock on the window? A sudden chill between the shoulders?

Yes, it is a lot to ask — but we must be sure. You may be under the impression that breath is proof enough of living, or pulse or heartbeat. When, in fact, there are many ghosts with heartbeats. I have seen ghosts fumbling for their credit cards at the checkout line. I have seen them waiting for the hostess to seat them. I have watched them shuffle down the sidewalk of my neighborhood, hands clasped behind their backs. They frown at the flowers. 

We must be sure. 

Do you enter a room facing backwards? Are you allergic to burnt turmeric? Have you knocked on a door and heard a church bell answer? Why are you facing backwards? What is it you keep in sight, as you are condemned to asylum? No, I’m afraid home is not specific enough an answer. An ocean, perhaps? Earthshine on the moon? Alright. This next question is important. When you look out, do you squint your eyes? Or is the horizon a drawn veil?

Oh, dear. 

No, not good, I’m afraid. Not good at all.

You’re wrong. I’m entirely sympathetic. I was once a ghost myself. My mother killed me at the kitchen table. I wept until desiccated, until a wind from an open window lifted my shriveled body and carried me to the ocean, where I swelled to the size of a dinghy before sharks punctured me. My blood stained the water, and from that stain a ghost emerged. I haunted the world for eight years. The world was mostly Brooklyn, where I took the A to an office building where I wrote about money as if it was necessary. At night, to fall asleep, I would try to remember the face of my grandmother before she was born. 

Take my hand. It proves nothing, but please — take it. 

I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help to you.