Red Silk Ribbon

The morning the girl became invisible, her mother tied a red silk ribbon to her wrist. The girl said she was only invisible, not lighter than air like a balloon, she wouldn’t drift away. Her mother tied the other end to her own wrist, saying she wasn’t so sure.

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The night the girl became invisible, friends came to visit. Her mother tied her ribbon to one leg of the sofa, and the friends watched bits of chocolate vanish into nothing as she ate.

They put their hands between hers and, wide-eyed, watched their fingers disappear. They took turns, each one screaming louder than the last.

They told the girl to carry things around the room, a cushion, a book, and a potted fern. To make them float. To be a ghost for them. A poltergeist.

But at last the friends grew bored. They left, and never came back.

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The week the girl became invisible, her doctor asked why she couldn’t understand this was all in her head. She wasn’t invisible at all, not really, and why didn’t she want to get better. The girl poked out her invisible tongue, and said it wasn’t so bad. You didn’t have to tell so many lies when you were invisible.

At home she baked a cake for no reason at all and her mother, watching the eggs break themselves into a bowl, ran their ribbon through her fingers and cried.

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The month the girl became invisible, they finally disabled the Face ID on her phone. She saw the world had gone on without her. Casting no shadow in the puddle of blue light, she scrolled through countless living lives and wondered what to feel.

If she cried, no one saw.

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The year the girl became invisible, she untied the red silk ribbon and drifted away.