Chipper.

It comes to me in the morning and settles over my skin, a patina of grief. It comes to me out of nowhere – a specter pain I think – in my arrogance – that I have been able to keep in a closet, a closet with a lock. The key, I think, is placed somewhere sacred, so sacred that I think I’ve forgotten the location. Thus – I need not visit that closet and its sad contents.

The thing is this: I move forward, but not really “move on.” Chip, dear one, baby brother, I try to leave your ghost untouched, try to distract my heart when it begins to cry for you, but inevitably I go in search for the closet key.

In drawers, I look – there it is! The key to a closet I’ve put my mother’s ghost in, and in the cupboard, I find the key to the drawer where I’ve laid my father’s ghost. I creep up to an old trunk, muscle memory in play, and gently lift the lid. More ghosts, but not yours.

Oh. What is this? Here around my neck hangs the key to your closet. It’s always with me, never off my person. I need not even go to the closet to visit your ghost – you never, never have left. You are still here.

Here.

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