When I picture you now, I envision you like how we imagined ghosts as children. White sheets draped over a body with two holes cut for the eyes to see. Maybe it’s Halloween night and you had to create a costume on a budget, or maybe you’re stalking the house, waiting for your opportunity to scare me. It feels childish and innocent and easy to imagine you so simply. It’s easier to picture that than the alternative, your withered figure wracked with cancer glowing ethereally like the ghost of Christmas past.