December 25, 1999

Dad keeps calling, but he hangs up without speaking.  Sometimes I can hear him on the end of the line waiting for me.  Waiting for me to give myself away.  

And she's outside, waiting.  I can smell her through the walls, unwashed and needy.  She's in the snow.  She's looking to get in, leaving footprints (sniffing for food, pawing through my trash), reading my mail, making marks on the outside of envelopes.  

I've kept it all.  Everything I can remember since I first met her.  Everything that seemed important.  It's all here.  Everything that makes sense.

But I can't wait anymore.

I'm standing up now, I'm taking her locket and standing up, standing up and going outside, going outside in the wet and standing, bare feet in the snow, bare feet in the snow until she comes to me, bare feet in the snow until this is over.