The Street Angel

      He died.

           He died 7 months ago; I know he did. I visited him in the hospital, cried when the heart monitor flat-lined, went to his funeral, visited his grave every Sunday.

           And yet here he was, plain as day, by the old bookshop on the corner of Turner Avenue and Second Street, smiling the same dopey grin he always had, front teeth slightly crooked.

           I was glad to see that he didn’t look anything like he did in the hospital. An eleven-year old boy, bloodied from head to toe, barely conscious after just having been hit by a snowplow whose brakes had gone out. Instead, he looked just like he always did. Blue jeans, ratty brown shoes in need of replacing, a bright yellow shirt from a community service day at his church, and an ugly camouflage jacket that his father had passed down to him before being deployed in the army. He also had on his signature two-inch thick glasses. My eyes were immediately drawn to his ears, which were too big for his head. I always told him they were the size of salad plates.

           He should still be alive.

           I told him to be careful. I’m his neighbor. Being five years older than him, I’ve watched this kid grow up. I know he’s reckless and rambunctious, so I told him to be sure to not go out in the street while he was playing in the snow. But, of course, he didn’t listen to me. He never does.

           Never did.

           But that wasn’t the problem at hand.

           I glanced around nervously at the other passerby to see if any of them would acknowledge him, or if I was going crazy with grief in the middle of June. No one gave him so much as a glance. I took a shaky breath and started walking towards the corner, trying not to look at him.

           As I reached the corner, his grin split even wider.

           He’s not there, I thought to myself. Just turn the corner or you’re going to be late for school. On finals day.

           “No, you aren’t.”

           It took all the strength within me to not faint on the spot. It was his voice. Coming out of his mouth. His distinct pre-teen voice cracks along with it.

           “School doesn’t start for another twenty minutes, you know that. And before you say anything, no, you’re not going crazy,” he said, the right corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk. “You’ve always been weird, but you’re not crazy.”

           I opened my backpack and let the books fall out, pretending I’d dropped them. I bent down and picked them up, placing them back in my bag slowly.

           Not enough that you were my neighbor for eleven years, you just had to come and invade my thoughts, didn’t you? I thought. If he could tell what I was thinking, there was no point in making myself look crazy by speaking to thin air.

           “It’s never enough,” he said, bending down next to me and laying on the concrete. “You seem upset. Have a science test today?” He knew just how frustrated I always got with science. It was my worst subject.

           As a matter of fact, I have finals in nearly all my subjects today, I thought. Excuse me if I’m being a little hostile, but I don’t need hallucinations of my dead neighbor today.

           “You seem to be awfully calm for someone who’s talking to a dead person,” he observed. “Are you hoping it’s real?”

           “That’s not possible,” I muttered to myself, standing up and zipping my bag.

           “There’s that loving voice I’ve missed so much!” he said, laughing and standing up with me. I started to walk down the street at a quickened pace.

           Am I going crazy? I thought to myself, forgetting for a second that he could hear me.

           “Absolutely not,” he said. “And this isn’t a weird grief thing either. I’m just as real as that guy.” He pointed across the street at an old man who had newspapers wrapped around himself, in lieu of a blanket. I frowned.

           Don’t point, it’s rude, I thought. He put his hand down.

           “He’s sleeping, anyway,” he mumbled, continuing down the street with me.

           So, if I’m not going crazy, does that mean that you’ve suddenly come back to life and now have the power to read minds?

           He laughed.

           “No. I just wanted to visit my favorite neighbor! You know, it’s one of those things like on the ghost shows we used to watch. They say if a spirit still has something to do, they wander the earth before entering the afterlife.” I smiled slightly. One of my favorite memories with him was when I babysat him every other Friday night. We’d order a pizza and watch these stupid paranormal shows, laughing at the obviously fake ones, and making theories about ones that might be true.

           So, your spirit isn’t “at rest” because you wanted to visit me? I thought. No offense, but I thought spirits were only supposed to wander the earth if they had something important to do. You just wanted to say hi.

           “Oh, you flatter yourself too much,” he said, smiling. “I’ve been to the afterlife. I’m just back for a visit.”

           And the Big Man let you come down to visit little old me?

           “Of course he did, I’m one of his favorites!” he said, throwing out his arms and showcasing himself. There was a soft white glow around him. He looked like an angel.

           Didn’t think God was supposed to have favorites, I thought. Although, if God did have favorites, it would make sense for him to pick this kid. There’s just something about him that makes you love him from the moment you meet him.

           “Just look me, how could I not be?” he said, laughing. “Besides, I was practically encouraged to come down here. When spirits come to earth, it’s for a reason.”

           And what reason is that? I thought, pulling out my phone and scrolling through the notifications, trying to look like a normal teenager who wasn’t talking to a ghost through their thoughts.

           “Because,” he said, “he doesn’t want us to be alone when we die.”