I am a child in a group children all running somewhere.
I ask, "Where is everyone is going?"
They laugh and sing, "Come one come all, we're going to the town hall..."
Inside they are all rollerblading on the smooth clean marble floors. I do not own blades so I slide in my socks and it works just as well. I wander off through a dark side passage, down several flights of stairs and find myself at a brand new ice skating rink.
The ice is fresh and gleams like crystal under the spotlights. At this point, on the opposite side, all the kids come spilling out onto the rink in hockey gear. A school coach appears and tells everyone that the rink has been built to honor a ghost's skill and accomplishments. He hesitantly delivers a speech about not knowing anything about training a hockey team, but that if he and the kids try very hard they'll win the tournament. So the kids start training. Except me, the coach won't let me play because my skates, which are in fact wool socks, date from before the war. In fact, I am from before the war, a war I didn't survive.
So I sit still, still watching the kids practice.
I keep my silence and secrets safe.