Dan Lechay

We never saw the ghost, though he was there— we knew from the raindrops tapping on the eaves. We never saw him, and we didn’t care. Each day, new sunshine tumbled through the air; evenings, the moonlight rustled in dark leaves. We never saw the ghost, though: he was there, if ever, when the wind tousled our hair and prickled goosebumps up and down thin sleeves; we never saw him.   And we didn’t care to step outside our room at night, or dare click off the nightlight: call it fear of thieves. We never saw the ghost, though he was there in sunlit dustmotes drifting anywhere, in light-and-shadow, such as the moon weaves. We never saw him, though, and didn’t care, until at last we saw him everywhere. We told nobody.   Everyone believes we never saw the ghost (if he was there), we never saw him and we didn’t care.