Ghostly

     I see him in my swirl of dreams every night. A little boy, no more than 6 years old, visits me in my restless sleep. His name is David. He told me to call him Davy. His hair is white, his eyes are a deep shade of blue. I find him charming, but I'm sure others would find him  terrifying.

     See, Davy died in 1954. His Great Aunt Salla killed him with the kitchen knife in her hand as she was preparing his lunch for school that day. She was sick of Davy crying and whining while she was cutting an apple. I'll leave the rest of the story to your imagination.

     How do I know this, you ask? Well, Davy told me the story the night we met. I remember it just like it was yesterday. One cool October evening, the 31st, I believe, he made himself known in my lightless bedroom. He was hovering over my bed, his pajamas hanged off his slender body, making it seem like he hadn't had a good meal in ages. Of course he didn't, he was a ghost.

     He explained to me how it was his fault and he deserved to be punished. His job was to make Great Aunt Salla happy, not to annoy her. A tear slid down his hollow face and landed on my blanket. I touched the tear with the tip of my finger, not believing that it was a tangible thing. But to my surprise, I could easliy hold it in my hand. I put it in a plastic baggie. To this day the baggie is in my dresser under my clothes.

     I longed to hold Davy in my arms and comfort him, but all he was was a nearly transparent spirit. I waved my hand through him, I tried to wrap my arms around him. But it was useless. The little boy that earned a place in my heart was untouchable.

     We still visit on a nightly basis. I tell him how my day went, he tells me how his went. We play silly games and tell jokes that are only funny to us. He says I'm the only person that can make him smile. It warms me from the inside out everytime he says that. It's great to know that I'm the reason his afterlife is worthwhile.