Ghost

I can still see the smudge of your lipstick on the bathroom counter,

dark red against fading tan, bleeding like an open wound

I can still smell the scent of your perfume along the wrists

of my most worn sweatshirts, like summertime and happiness,

crashing waves and salty sand

I can still hear the sound of your footsteps on the staircase,

cushioned and gentle, thudding like raindrops on window panes

I can still feel the heat of your breath against my ear

when you’d giggle silly promises, saying things like

‘forever’ and ‘eternity’ as if they were really possible

I can still remember the day you told me you didn’t feel well,

how you said something wasn’t right, that it hadn’t been

for a while

I can still remember the look on your face when the doctor said,

“It’s cancer,” eyes wet, chest heaving; unable to understand

what was happening to you

I can still remember the late night hospital visits and

silent drives; the sadness of not knowing the weight

you were carrying, the fear of it becoming

too much

I can still remember the taste of your tears

as I kissed them away and murmured,

“You’ll get through this,” on the night you wept

against my shoulder, in too much pain to even sleep

I can still remember the day I shaved your hair,

how you asked, “Will you still love me?”

and I responded, “How is that even a question?”

I can still remember how numb I felt

when the doctor said, “It’s getting worse,”

and you whispered, “I can’t do this anymore.”

I can still remember the grip of your hand in mine

as I sat next to your hospital bed, the pain a promise

you’d hold on as long as you could;

and I remember the feeling when it became limp,

like a phantom’s hand, until all I held was your skin--

weightless and cold

a ghost of what was, and what never will be

Grace Davidson, Grade 12

Creative Writing Major