Sometimes... Sometimes I wave at the things in my closet. They always wave back, even when they're not there. My dad says the things are never there and I shouldn't be afraid of them. He doesn't understand: I'm not. The things that aren't there, sometimes they come out to play. We play "How Long Can I Hold My Breath." We play "Hide The Cat By Throwing It Out The Window." We play "How Many Times Can I Poke Mommy With A Needle While She's Asleep." They play all of these fun games with me because Mommy and Daddy are too busy to play me. Daddy runs the town. Well, that's what he says. He mostly goes into town and yells at people, then comes home and sits under the big oak tree outside. Sometimes he has a bottle he drinks from. Sometimes is a lot of times. I ask him about when he sits out there and he tells me he sits out there to forget. Or to remember. Sometimes, he says both. Mommy has bottles too. Sometimes, when she wakes up in the morning, she comes down to breakfast and whispers to herself. She mostly whispers the names of my older brothers and sisters. She whispers about how she wished she didn't wake up. I have lots of older brothers and sisters. They don't live in the house with me and Mommy and Daddy. They live out back underground. Mommy says they sleep in beds of dirt and have those stones for pillows. I guess that's why they call them "headstones." The things in my closet whisper the same names Mommy does. Sometimes, they whisper my name and ask me to join them. I tell them they aren't really there. They agree, but they say that doesn't matter. They ask me to come play under the great oak tree, but I tell them that's where Daddy sits. They whisper that they know. They whisper I can live in the tree if I want. I ask them, like a treehouse? They slowly shake their heads. They ask me about living in the tree when they're really there. They ask me about living in the tree when they aren't really there, too. When they whisper too loud for me to sleep, I stare out my window at the old oak tree. When the wind catches its branches, it looks like the tree waves at me too. But the tree is always there. I ask the things from my closet if they're ghosts. Some say yes and some say no. When they answer, I can't decide which ones of them seem sadder. I ask them if there's a ghost of the old oak tree. They just shake their heads like when I ask them about Daddy. Sometimes, when they're there and when they're not, they tell me stories. The stories are always about children, boys and girls, and the stories almost always end with the boys and girls dying. Some of the stories are about a mommy killing a boy or girl. Some of the stories are about a daddy that kills the boy or girl. When they tell me the stories, I'm usually sitting at my window, watching the tree just stand there. Sometimes it waves, like it wants me to go out and play with it. Sometimes, when Daddy's in town and Mommy is taking one of her "bottle naps," I go outside and sit under the old oak tree. When I sit under it, sometimes the wind playfully tugs at my hair. The grass is soft and feels like it's pulling my feet into the ground whenever I take a step. But when I feel the ground pull at me, like it's going to swallow me whole when I jump up and down, the fun I'm having begins to feel less fun. When I go back inside, I spend the rest of the day reading and look at the old oak from my window. When I go to bed, and the moonlight shadows dance across my bedroom walls and flit over the ceiling, I sit up and look over at my closet. When the door creaks open, complaining on its arthritic hinges, I wave at the things that aren't there. They always wave back. Sometimes, I tell them about what I want my life to be like. I'd like to say sometimes, but all the times, they point out my window and I know: I'll be a thing that's there even when I'm not. I'll live under the old oak tree, inside the old oak tree and I'll wave to the window of the next person to sleep in my room, wanting them to come out and play with me.