“Can you see me?” he whispered.
She continued with her chores silently, gliding like a dancer through the house. He followed her, broken, sometimes whispering, sometimes shouting, begging to be seen.
“You saw me when you were young,” he said, sitting down. “We talked, played. I still am here, a dream, invisible.”
The spirit sat upon the wooden stool, watching his ward flutter gracefully through the kitchen, softly landing at different stations like a butterfly. She beat the batter, she poured the batter, the pan went into the oven, and finally she came to the sink, washing the dishes silently.
He could no longer see himself today, and knew his time had come. Before the bell above the oven rang, before the cake was cooked or frosting laid, he dissipated into whatever ether dreams fall into, forgotten forever.
But still, as he forgot himself, he whispered to her, “Can you see me?”