A tiny shadow of a little girl. Standing. On the outside of the open windowpane. On the sill as narrow as a tea biscuit.
My sister-in-law calls me back. “The kids are okay.” She makes a dismissive motion with her hand.
I slow my step, they with the grown children have it together more than I do. But I need to do this. My chest tightens when a kid goes AWOL for more than six minutes. My jaw cracks open each time a kid wobbles five inches from the curb. My husband can’t understand why my throat emits a shriek and my body lunges forward when nothing’s ever happened, but I’m a young mother; I need to know my kids are safe and there’ll be milk to drink and pens to write with.
I clamber up the stairs, survey the scene. In one room there’s a fort going up, boys, blankets, bridges. I find my two-year-old toddling along the hallway, dragging someone’s blankie, and move on to look for three-year-old Sori, my oldest.
Peek into bedroom two: Girls in pink frills whispering with an air of urgency. Bedroom three has wooden blocks strewn about from a castle long collapsed. In the fourth room, I find black-red throw pillows listless on the once brown carpet. The daybed is crooked, touching the wall where the window is. It’s not meant to be there. I look up, and I see Sori. A tiny shadow of a little girl. Standing. On the outside of the open windowpane. On the sill as narrow as a tea biscuit.
Create a free account to keep reading.
