The wind blows my hair. I’m standing on the edge again, my torn, off-white dress billowing out around me. A tunnel of blinding, bright light shines before me, beckoning me like a lullaby, and I swear I would cry if I still could. Legs straining, teeth clenched, I try to fight the heavy gusts, to reach out and touch that sweet sunlight, behind which I know paradise waits.

I am so close. I can hear the nightingales lilting, the people laughing. Feel the soft grass beneath my burning skin. The pounding pain in my head almost begins to ease, and my mind screams relief at the thought of rest. Reaching out, I see flashes of a new life race through my mind and for a split, blissful second, I actually think I’ve made it.

Then the corners of my vision go blurry. My joints buckle. Coarse wind slams into me, pushing me away from the light. Just like every other time I’ve tried to cross over for the past thirteen years.

“WHY?” My yell is muffled, as if my mouth were covered in dirt. Screaming and sobbing, clawing at the ground, I watch the glowing spirit of an old man climb effortlessly toward glory, his stance unwavering and triumphant. My own hands are dim, dusty, and pathetic in comparison.

The wind is still blowing as I walk the misty streets of my hometown, after the sun has gone to bed. Sometimes another figure will pass by—a jogger with a pickle green jacket and a dog, a grandparent with a stroller full of kids in princess dresses—and I will smile, only to remember I am completely invisible to them. And then I weep tears that aren’t really there and never will be. One would think I’d be accustomed to being dead by now, but not a day goes by that I don’t wonder. How long do I have until I fade away completely, until I am no longer a ghost, or even a distant memory? How long until I am simply an impression of energy, lost to the crying wind?