Sometimes I see ghost children. Not as pale apparitions, but in the mundane. They sit on seemingly empty swing-sets casting long shadows in the evening just before dinner time. One pulled my hair the other day. He masqueraded as a low-hanging branch thrust my way by the wind, but I saw him for what he was. A young boy who died before he learned that the girl with hair my color liked him back.

And so he tugged my ponytail like a schoolyard crush.