If I could open up this door, maybe I would find them. Coming upstairs, carrying my bookbag. Mom opening the door for me. Saying welcome home in her red apron. If I could open up this door, maybe I would see my favorite sweatshirt and my bookbag and my doll, where we laughed and where we slept, the little heated table that we sat around. The wood post where we carved our heights. The red plastic cups in the cupboard. I’d open up that window once and for all. Maybe everything would be the way it used to.
