In my dream, I was talking to the ghost of a boy I went to school with when I was younger. I hadn’t known he’d died, but apparently he had, right after high school, in some kind of car accident. Listening was hard at first. I had to strain to hear him. But the more I heard, the clearer he sounded. I thought, perhaps the voices of ghosts were in the background all along, and all I needed to do was find one voice like his and tune in.

He was angry about his death, and so he was stuck in this room we were sitting in. I asked him to imagine he was a child flying a kite. I asked him to imagine the way a strong wind would buffet the kite and nearly take him off the ground, if it were strong enough. As I said the words, I closed my eyes and could feel it too, the string in my hand and the pull of something distant at the other end. I asked him to imagine it pulling him into the sky. I asked him to be willing to go with it. I waited, and called his name, and he was gone.

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