“It is the ghost of creation long past,” said the old man.
“But it’s so beautiful!” The child holding his hand gasped with excitement.
“Creation is beautiful.”
“But if it is the ghost of what was, then is it not a dream?”
“There is a fine line between dreams and creation. It only takes a moment of lucidity upon waking to make one the other. The hardest thing is the remembering. I know for I am old.”
“But I won’t ever forget you Grandfather,” said the child. Her wide-eyed look held the promise of years to come and the experiences of a short life remembered.
“I know,” the old man said. “If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be looking up at this rippling curtain of emerald hue, I’d be part of it.”
“I don’t understand?”
“I am newly made, a reconstruction, less than I was and more than I will be. I am a ghost like the aurora, but created by you.”
“But that would make me God!”
“All children are,” he replied, then faded away.