Her laugh is the exact sound angel wings make when they flutter by en masse.
But I can’t get in. I’ve been pounding on the door, shoving notes underneath, yelling through the lock for years. She sounds hopeful; we make plans. I put on my best dress, some makeup – make myself as close to delightful as she.
That was her horse’s name, you know – “Delight”.
But something happens and I can’t get in. Then, I sit at home, hands folded in my skirt, optimistic that we’ll reschedule. Not acknowledging the door that blocks the way.
Until today. Today I hit the door and I wept, realizing that, after years of beating on it she may not be able to open it anymore. And I’m not old enough to have been given the skeleton key. I’m too late to have earned that trust.
I don’t want her to be alone. She was an entertainer; she doesn’t burden others with her idea of boredom. I’d give anything to be bored by her bedside.
But I can’t get in anymore. She won’t let us.