Hope tapped her long-nailed fingers on the glass and waved hello. She’s not a frequent visitor in my life. Her absence isn’t noticed much, but her presence brings the warm sun to my face. I don’t know how long she’ll be here. Still, she sits beside me at the windows and we watch the naked trees dance in the wind. A ruby-red leave flits across the ground as we watch a bug crawl on the pavement outside.

I want to ask if there’s a reason for her to visit. If she’ll be here a while or just a day. I want to know if I need to make up the bed in the spare bedroom. The room is half-office half-bedroom, cluttered with supplies and books and an abundance of pictures. It’s a little embarrassing to have her stay in such a homey space. She doesn’t mind, she promises me. She says it makes my life real. I think she likes leaving parts of herself in places I don’t expect: an old, beautiful picture in a stack of papers; a favorite book on my shelf I thought I’d put in storage; a comfortable slipper I thought I’d lost last week.

If I ask her anything though, if I press her for answers, beg for knowledge, pay for her to be my psychic instead, she will disappear. I’ll hold her hand until the moment my eyes are mid-blink. Before I’ve opened my eyes again I know she’s gone. My empty hand will be the most evidence because it’s hard to explain how you know someone’s gone by how their sudden vanishing makes you feel. I still have two arms, two legs, ten fingers, ten toes, all necessary organs. I’ll get used to her absence again. I’ll forget how it feels to stand in the sunlight after too many days inside. I’ll keep my head down as I progress through days and weeks and the longest hours of my life. I’ll keep running my hands over my dry skin because I know there’s something missing but I don’t know where.

I watch the ruby-colored leaves outside the window. I’ll keep the guestroom made up in case she visits again.

I’ll talk to you soon

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