You are the ghosts we play with before we learn to be afraid of ghosts or before we learn to believe there are no such things as ghosts. You enter our lives with the grace of the unbodied and you speak to us in our own voice.
You are a girl she wants to know, Cindy, but you refuse to talk much. She says you had parents but they got busy and forgot about you, but gave you all your clothes, though they all look the same. You like cereal but not milk, peanut butter but not bread, swings but not slides. When you grow up, you want to be an actor, but sadly, you are shrinking, just a little bit, every day. At night, she cries for you, afraid when she wakes up, you’ll be gone.
You are prodigy, a child yet a business mougel. She calls you to play but you are too busy, dashing across town. One afternoon, you find each other on the sidewalk and dash into a coffee shop for a quick hot chocolate; your parents still won’t let you drink coffee, though they did give you money for a cab. You listen sweetly as she tells you the cat had a bad hairball, mommy cut her hair and she’s seen “Frozen” 6 times. You check your cell phone and excuse yourself.
You’re old, a grandmother. Some days you are in a wheelchair but some days you can dance. You prefer show tunes, though he doesn’t like them. You tell stories about crossing the prairie and by the time you are done, he thinks he’s growing up in Oklahoma in 1887. Only there’s gameboys and cars. But it’s like 1887 because everything is black and white. You have a lot of money and you spend it on shoes. And books. And sometimes very expensive ice cream that comes in little cartons. You offer some to him and he eats and eats, even though it’s lunch time soon. You tell him ice cream is better than lunch. You tell him you only live once. You kiss him on the top of the head when he says he believes in you. You imagine he will always love you because no one knows him the way you do.
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