Ghostwriter

      The definition of a ghostwriter is as such: a person whose job it is to write material for someone else who is the named author. Ghostwriters are unacknowledged, overlooked, forgotten, neglected. This girl was a ghostwriter. She didn’t use pen and paper as her medium though. No. This girl used kindness. This girl wrote the tale of kindness on others’ hearts.

Reserved. Quiet. Intelligent. Three key words could describe the ghostwriter. Everyone knows her as this. A few only see this. But it shouldn’t be like that. Everyone should know that this young woman is kind. A sweet girl. She wanders the hall lonely but with a smile on her face. She stays in the back supporting others and only taking spotlight when others are too frightened.

I remember when I first met her. We were sophomores and I had forgotten money for lunch. I had sat down and a few minutes later this girl comes up to me with a lunch tray and puts it in front of me.

“I didn’t want you to go hungry.” She told me quietly before walking away. I remember the boys telling me she had a crush on me and I remember calling her an ugly freak as she walked away. I had seen her before. I knew her name. I knew she was brilliant. But I had never spoken to her and I hadn’t even told her thank you. She had turned around when I had muttered my cruel words and she stared at me with a smile she sat down. She had heard me. Or so I thought. I don’t know. I’ve never asked. I’ll never know.

She drifted in the halls and jumped from desk to desk helping her classmates, taking the blame for actions so the punishment would be less severe. After all, who would scold this sweet girl? I tried to ignore her but I always found for her.

A book fell, this maiden swept in. A pencil was needed; a box was given. Someone was pushed to the side; a warm hand steadied them. A boy shivered in anger, fear, sadness, a kind girl came with concerned eyes. A teenager stuttered; she echoed strongly. Money was short, she came with some to spare. A young man forgot an assignment; she arrived with an extra copy and answers. An old man stumbled; she walked him across the street. An old woman sat alone in a coffee shop; she bought her a coffee and smiled. A dog cowered in a bush; she gave in a bowl of food.

Whenever she went she graced the area in kindness and hospitality. She smiled, she waved, she spoke. She was a ghostwriter. A piece of paper with kind words was left on the ground. A treat for someone appeared on a table. A completed assignment materialized. The ghostwriter vanished.

The maiden came and went in few steps. She was present one second, gone the next. If you were not the recipient of her gift, someone near you was. If they were not, they hadn’t found it yet.

But where are the ghostwriter’s gifts? She sits alone in the coffee shop. Her books fall. She’s left without lunch. Why? Her money bought yours.

A ghostwriter goes without recognition. A ghostwriter is never the recipient. When asked their purpose, they make a lie. They deny. It breaks your heart.

Maiden, ghostwriter, she speaks so strongly. Her accent is beautiful. But she stutters. When you do kindness to her, she is confused. She is scared. You do her kindness and she must repay you with a favor, with money. Kindness does not find its way to her. Ghostwriter is noticed for a split second and she is no longer her strong, motherly self.

No. Find her, speak to her, watch her fade. She’ll be there, then she’ll be gone.

I will never know her story. Is it heartbreaking? Is it troubling? Is it beautiful? I will never know. You will never know. No one will ever know. But perhaps that is the beautiful thing. Ghostwriter’s gifts are sudden and perfect. Her presence is sudden and perfect. Her smile is always and perfect. Would her gifts be as beautiful as they are if she was an open book? Would we want her to be an open book? Is there ugly in her beautiful ways?

She is unacknowledged, overlooked, forgotten, neglected. She fades away quickly. It is sad. It is beautiful. Watch the maiden walk. Watch the maiden smile. For the maiden will disappear into the air like a ghost.