I look around and see many ghosts-so many lost souls, like me. I died at birth, never getting a glimpse of what people call “mom.” I never got to giggle with my “dad” holding me above his head in pride. I never got to feel the wrinkly skin of a grandmother or grandfather against my face.
I grew up with the cold touch of a ghost, with the howling of lost souls. Never once did I feel the mother’s love for her daughter, just the sorrow of a mother who died and missed her child.
The new souls glide around me-their cold touch foreign, for they are newly dead.
A little baby is crying, and I feel a ping in my heart. The girl looks so much like me- brown eyes, with soft golden tufts of hair, and a wide pink mouth with little teeth.