I Will Remember

by Calli M. 

For as long as I could remember, I could see the spirits of the deceased. 

Very quickly, I realized that seeing the dead was not a common pastime for the living. It was as if there was a distinct line separating the living from the dead. They could not hear, see, or feel each other. 

I took the line and used it as a jump rope. Or a lasso. Or whatever caught my fancy. 

The living could not interact with the dead, yet I could and always have been able to. 

The dead could not interact with the living, yet I would blend in seamlessly with any crowd, only for the memory of me to fade, like how one forgets the exact shade of blue of their grandmother’s eyes or what grandpa sounded like when he laughed. 

A forgotten memory that existed with the living and conversed with the dead. An enigma and a paradox that could not possibly exist. That was me. 

Instinct told me the dead and the living were water and oil. They did not, could not interact, and when they mixed, contamination ensued. Without a body to house them, souls would slowly begin to fade, out of my sight and out of the memory of the living. 

I had made it a game at first, but it quickly became a more serious job. Most of the dead had no problem with moving on, but some would panic at the sight of their former bodies, unwilling or unable to acknowledge they were done. I knew that it was unnatural, almost dangerous, for them to stay; it was an unintended fault in nature’s design. So I started to approach souls, talk to them, and convince them to move on. 

For souls who didn’t understand death to its fullest, who had left the world before they learned, I would explain it to them. I would tell them how death was the end of something and the start of something new, that it wasn’t something to be afraid of, that everyone experienced it and they were not alone. 

For souls who grieved with their loved ones, unwilling to leave them to bear the pain, I would comfort them. I would gently remind them how time would heal all wounds, how everyone must learn to move on and savor the moments as they passed. That grief was healing and growth and a part of life.

For souls who struggled to let go, to move on without leaving a mark on the world, I would remind them of all their accomplishments. To live is tantamount to throwing a pebble into the great lake of the universe, to let ripples disturb the surface, to create a change unique to themselves. I promised to remember them, all of their triumphs and contributions, to never forget their life. 

I had noticed something odd in the quiet town I was visiting. There was a dead soul who couldn’t see me. Very quickly, after some trial, error, and a mishap with an ice cream sundae, I discovered that they were entirely unaware of my presence. 

Huh. 

Oh well. I shrugged to myself. Some humans carried an excessive amount of emotion as they passed on. A newly dead soul, untethered from their body, had trouble adjusting to this sudden rush of unfiltered emotion, which made letting go of the living world much harder. Sometimes, very rarely, but sometimes, I have to forcibly tear them away from the living world as a parent would with an unruly toddler before they start to fade. 

I sat up abruptly, shaking my head. Over the years, I had started to develop a sixth sense. Similar to echolocation, I could sense any ghosts near me. If I concentrated, I could even get an echo of an emotion as well. It would cost me a headache everytime, to feel emotions that weren’t mine but still so real. 

The ghost was…blank. I frowned and concentrated harder. Nothing. I couldn’t sense their presence at all. I would’ve thought they didn’t exist, had they not been floating before my own eyes. There was no emotion either. No anger, no fear, no vengeance. No happiness or love either. They were just…numb. A void where emotion should be, but wasn’t. 

The headache that day was from another cause. 

One day, my ghost radar lit up. The mug I was holding shattered at my feet, but I was already on the move. A sudden surge of emotions had hit me, too fast to distinguish between them. I reached the town, tearing through the streets, only to skid to a halt as soon as I found the ghost. 

They were talking– no, laughing. With a girl. A breathing, moving, living girl. Impossible. 

I squeezed my eyes shut, but when I opened them, all that changed was how the girl sat up from where she was previously laying down on the grass. 

“No, no, no,” the girl giggled. “You’re missing the point entirely. Ice cream is supposed to have a variety of flavors. That’s what makes it fun!” 

“Creating artificial flavors like pepperoni pizza is just weird, Mal,” the ghost argued back. “No one in their right mind would eat that.” 

Humans. Having a casual conversation while breaking the foundation of my world. 

“Not true!” The girl– Mal– flicked a fallen leaf in the ghost’s direction before making a face. “Okay, maybe. Pepperoni ice cream sounds gross. But bubblegum is a perfectly respectable flavor.” 

“It looks like a neon pink puddle of nuclear waste.” 

“It looks delicious!” 

“Uh huh, sure it does.” The ghost laughed, dodging Mal’s offended swipe. The girl’s fingertips briefly phased through them, but neither one seemed particularly bothered, like it was a common occurrence. 

I observed them throughout their conversation, partly in shock, partly genuinely curious. I could sense the ghost now, in both presence and emotions, but their eyes passed straight through me, like I was the transparent one in the room. The girl, however, felt familiar. Perhaps I had met one of her relatives before? 

“So.” The ghost plopped down next to Mal. “Any further plans for the dance?” 

The girl lit up and started one of the most fast paced, nonsensical, passionate rants I had ever heard. She contemplated between three different dresses, wondered which jewelry to wear, and debated how to do her makeup.

 “Should I just go in a suit?” 

“A suit?” 

“Yeah, like in–” Mal suddenly gasped, face tight with pain. 

“Mallory!” The ghost flew up, worry-fear-concern flaring out. 

A minute passed, then a couple more, as Mallory’s breathing slowly returned to normal. “I’m fine.” She gave the ghost– her friend, I realized– a smile. A smile that matched the trembling of her hands. 

I realized with a jolt why the girl felt familiar. My life revolved around meeting the dead. Mallory was dying.

My job had one rule, the only law that had ever applied to me: the dead cannot stay with the living. For years, I had maintained that law. I had seen dying humans in the past, some even younger than Mallory. I traveled to battlefields riddled with corpses, walked through hospitals filled with the wounded, and had seen small children born too early struggling to breathe. Every single one of them had passed on, and I have led them out of this world without remorse, just a vague, detached concern. 

So why was I hesitating? In that moment, watching the ghost and the girl, a phenomenon I could have never dreamed up, I knew that with a simple yank from my end would be enough to pull the ghost out of the living realm. They would pass on, simple as that. So what had stopped me from doing so? 

I had asked that question multiple times, wondering if given the chance, would I have chosen differently? 

Perhaps it was the smile on the girl’s face or the pain in her shaking hands. Perhaps it was her friend’s gentle spirit or their tangible concern. Perhaps it was the joy that they shared, a joy I had the honor to witness, in a world that had dealt them the worst hand possible: being invisible to all and living on borrowed time. 

I don’t know. I still don’t. But on that day, I stepped back and left them laughing on that hill, arguing about trivial topics, discussing clothes and make up. I stepped back and let both of them live. 

A few months later, I was notified of the presence of a new ghost. I led her, a girl who had lived her short life to the fullest, and her friend, who had always stayed by her side, beyond the veil that separated life and death. 

Ghosts don’t remember their lives. Memories made while alive stay with the living. But I am not dead nor living. And I will remember.

About the Author 

Calli M is a bookworm who is learning to read minds. She will always be writing and hopes to publish her own book one day.