Open Letter

You were standing in the doorway. I was four or five, I think. The hall light was on behind you so I couldn't see your face clearly. Just your shape. You were smaller than me and wore blue pajamas.

I found this drawing in a box of things from my childhood. Two stick figures, me and you. Someone labeled you "night girl" in crayon. I don't remember writing that. But it's my handwriting.

I mentioned you to my mom this morning. We've been getting along better lately. It's different now that I'm older, we actually talk. But when I brought you up she got this look. Not angry. Something else. She said I had vivid dreams as a kid. She said it so quickly. Then she asked if I'd worked out my schedule for next week. I don't know why that bothered me.

You just stood there. I remember that part. You didn't say anything. You were so still. I wanted to say something but I couldn't. My mouth wouldn't work. And then you turned and walked away. I heard your steps down the hall toward the bathroom. Then nothing. I either fell asleep or the memory just stops there.

I told her about you back then. I'm pretty sure I did. She said I'd had a dream. Maybe she was right. I had a lot of dreams. I was always making up stories, playing pretend. But I don't remember making you up.

The drawing says "night girl" like it was your name. Like you appeared more than once. I don't remember other times. Just this one. Just you in the doorway.

I have my shift in an hour. I should be getting ready. Instead I'm on my bedroom floor holding this drawing trying to figure out why it matters.

Were you real? I keep thinking if you were real, someone would remember. There would be some explanation. A cousin who visited. A neighbor's kid. Something.

If you weren't real, then why do I remember your blue pajamas so clearly? Why do I remember that you didn't smile? Why do I remember the sound of your footsteps?

My mom is downstairs making lunch. I could go down and ask her again. Ask her if she really doesn't remember me talking about you. Ask her why she looked at me that way this morning.

But I already know she'll say the same thing.

The door is still there. Same door. Same hallway. Same light switch.

You're not there.

You were never there.

You were there.