I saw a ghost today. I greeted him with a hello, asked him “how’s life?” and made him a sandwich. He did the same for me, minus the sandwich.
I was nervous as he watched me cover the bread with chicken, cheese, and peppers. My hands shook, but I did my best to hide it — by making the sandwich faster.
As I fumbled in conversation, my coworker acted as my security blanket, asking questions when all I could think was he’s here.
“How do you know me so well?” the ghost asked my coworker, and for once I wasn’t the one he’d forgotten.
I don’t talk about the ghost. My memories of him involve too many emotions, too much pain and turmoil from a past which means more to me than it ever did to him.
“Him?” you ask. “It’s a ghost.”
Yes, but only a ghost because — for my heart’s sake — I’ve forgotten he’s still alive.