Conditional Reality

The ghosts danced on our heads all night. In the morning we had bruises in the shapes of tiny footprints on our foreheads, noses, and cheeks. See, we said to each other, it really did happen. But the memories faded, like dreams, and we had to put our finger tips on the bruises, one after the other, in succession, like our hands were learning new dance steps. The people who had turned into ghosts bloomed in our minds as we placed our finger tips. They talked to us. We listened. The music was there, faint and delicate, like wilting flowers.