But Mira is standing in the doorway of my bedroom now. She’s holding the brass key.
Because the door is not in the closet.
The closet door was open. Just a crack. The same crack from Mira’s drawing. the locked door pdf
Inside, I found no clothes, no shelves, no drywall. Just a hallway. Long. Lit by a single bulb at the far end. And standing under that bulb, facing away from me, was a woman in a blue dress. The same dress my wife was buried in. But Mira is standing in the doorway of my bedroom now
I don’t remember writing this PDF. That’s the truth. The closet door was open
I threw the drawing away. I told myself children have wild imaginations. Grief does strange things to a child who lost her mother at four. I bought her a lock for her closet door. Not to keep something out. To keep her from going in.
And it’s already open.