Ghost

When I was young I could have sworn ghosts weren't real. The thought of them seemed faint, like something out of a Stephen King novel. They were fiction, after all. They cursed the living since they were them no more. Ghosts were always described as invisible spirits which flew through the wind and terrified hearts. I knew this could never be real since (of course) Tinker Bell was the only one who could fly.

In my elementary school mind, Tinker Bell was the realest of them all. She fluttered through doorways and danced around rooms, sprinkling pixie dust all around. She was my best friend; my ultimate icon. While the others searched for ghosts through floorboards, I would look up at the sky, waiting for her to float in and land on my shoulder.

Growing older meant growing out. My friends began to ditch the spooky stories of ghosts lingering behind curtains and hiding in the shadows. We grew out of nightmares because we started to live them in daylight. We understood more, but I understood that I didn't understand anything at all.

I understood that spirits and ghosts had to be real; for lives filled with love can't be lost in a flicker. A single, malfunctioning, microscopic cell can not lead to catastrophe.

While I sat in that waiting room, in denial, my head shook and Tinkerbell sat on my shoulder to curse me to a clown for believing her pixie dust would work. 

But I felt a spirit sit next to me and immediately warmth reminded me she wasn't gone; she was simply a ghost of golden light and love.

She whipped through the air as locks of hair spiraled around her before settling on my shoulder just like how Tinkerbell lay on Peter's. Her eyes were still alive, watching me through grief and guiding me back to life once more.