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Ellen,

I'm opening the front door. Hear it creak,
like the trilling of the crickets in the trees? Do you
remember the anticipation as you waited, with
plaited hair and baited breath and an impish grin,
for Daddy to come home?

He never did, did he?
He should have fixed those brakes.
I remember it too.
I'm coming in, Ellen, no need
for me to ask permission.

Ellen,

I'm walking across the carpet. The pile
ruffles under my feet, just like Roger's fur.
Do you remember the way
dear old Roger, the way he'd race to greet you
when you came back home,
mouth a-gaping, tongue a-lolling?
Do you remember the silken feel of his thick golden fur?

I remember it too, Ellen. Even though all his tongue
tastes now is the bitter tang of a bad berry,
and the only things to touch his fur are
the worms and the dirt,
six feet underneath.

The worms,
the dirt,
and me. I'm coming, Ellen.

Ellen,

I'm coming up the steps.
One step. Two steps. Three.
Do you remember the sound
of Mom's slippers against the wood,
as she walked up to your room to wake you for breakfast?
Do you remember the
honey smell of maple syrup, oozing
across piping hot pancakes?

Mom made such a loud noise
when she fell down these stairs, Ellen.
Do you remember the sound
her head made when it met
the hard, hard wall at the bottom?
I remember the stain, oozing
across the plaster. It's still there,
if you look closely.

I remember it, Ellen. I'm coming.

Ellen,

I'm outside your door.
Can you hear the tire swing
on the tree outside, creaking
in the black gale blowing?
It's a cold night, Ellen.
A bad night to be alone.

I'm coming in, Ellen. We'll
be together soon.

Ellen,

I'm standing right next to your bed. Turn around.

Ellen,

I've got you.