I don’t think you’ve ever spoken to me. Even though you stood in my way every day at the Elk-Sixth Street intersection, you never opened your mouth. I thought for a long time that you were mute. Still, it seemed like you always had something to say.

            You must’ve not had a home. No other girl would wear such torn-up dresses. No one seemed to know your name. Even in the Canadian winter, you carried that pale blue umbrella of yours. I remember a time when it was a brilliant aquamarine color. That was when I was thirteen years old, and you couldn’t have been more than seven. During the last few years, you had outgrown the umbrella. It could barely just cover your head. I don’t know why you clung to it so much, and I may never find out.

            I could never fathom why you chose to stand in the middle of sidewalk every day I went to school. Each time, you held an empty biscuit bag in your hand and a paper airplane in the other. When I passed by you, you would offer the airplane to me and hold out the bag. I would ignore you. You were an annoyance to me, an obstacle in my way.

            Now, when I walk to school, a block of thin air sits your place at the intersection. I hadn’t taken much thought to your presence until you were gone. You had become part of my routine, a part of my every day. Even in the summer, the place where you once stood feels cold.

            I looked in the newspaper’s missing children section. None of the faces were yours.

            I asked the locals who lived near the street by you.

            “Have you seen a girl this tall? With a blue umbrella, torn dress and brown hair?”

            “I think so,” they would say.

            “Really? Do you know where she is?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Do you know anything about her?”

            They would furrow their brows, thinking hard.

            “Not much, but if we bumped into her, she would always ask if we had seen her sister.”

            They would explain:                           

            “We would ask her what her sister’s name was. She would always shake her head and mumble that she was not looking for her sister but someone who looked like her sister.”

            “Come to think of it, you look quite like her,” Some would remark.

            It was only until after you were gone did I look in the mirror. How did I not notice how we both had dullish gray eyes and a slightly upturned nose? Perhaps it was because I never took a good look at your face.

            You always stood in my way because you hoped one day I would take your paper airplane and drop a biscuit in your bag. Was your sister kind? She must’ve been. Even though day after day I rejected you, you still gave me a chance.

            Now you are gone. If I had dropped a biscuit into your bag, would you still be here? Every day when I walk to school, I have to pass by that cold block of air, wishing that your umbrella would be there.

            I don’t know where you are. I don’t even know the sound of your voice. You are but a thin ghost in this town. But, if you ever come back, I will take that paper airplane and drop a biscuit into your bag.