Dear Baby Sarah,
I've watched you watching that front door. It's gone now. Kicked in, splintered, shipped off to a trash heap somewhere, I'm sure. Do you remember the holographic sticker outside? What did it say? La illa-ha? Assalamu Alaikum? No, you wouldn't know that. You were barely old enough for them to teach you to read it then. Fuck, you weren't even tall enough. I'm guessing the only times you really saw it were when they held you. Do you remember being held?
That door. It was painted a hideous shade of mustard.
You used to stand at the window by the door, mother yelling at you not to tug at the little sheer curtain, waiting to see who would come to see you. Hoping that whoever came would be full of love. I look out that window now and it's empty. The curtain's gone. There's a single dying flower in a faded plastic pot on the sill. You never see the people you love coming to hold you through that window. Not anymore. Sometimes I see people who love me leaving through that window. Mostly I just ignore it.
You've spent hours watching that door. Watching people come in. Watching people walk out. Watching, and waiting, hoping that someone would come sit with you so that you'd never have to be alone. On either side. I started sitting there with you a long time ago, and I never left your side. I still visit you there now, even though you've died.
Do you remember the sun shower? It was your first sun shower. You didn't know it was possible, and neither did I. That was the day we started believing in miracles. You were still in your nightie, off-white silk with ruffled cap-sleeves and brown checks. You loved that nightie, and one day it just disappeared. I remember Asim and Dad being outside, Asim laughing, both of them coming in from the car. You know better though, don't you? Asim was asleep. Your father wasn't home. Your father wasn't home when you started believing in miracles. That is probably a good thing, dear heart.
More than anything, you remember that door at night. You remember watching your father walk out that door. You remember feeling cold. Sometimes there were lights, sometimes there weren't. Sometimes there was a phone, sometimes there wasn't. Asim was always there, even though you don't remember that part. Sometimes he was out, or down, or trying to pick up the pieces, but he was always there, you playing in the back of his mind.
Watching him walk out that door into the dark filled you with the kind of dread no kid should ever know. I remember how you felt. A little sick, a little panicked, cold, trembling, and tensed. I've still got that sickening tension in me. It's really hard to make it go away, yeah?
Remember the last time he walked out into the dark? I remember it. I remember you telling me that you hoped he wouldn't come back. Funny, that. I think - I'm not sure, but I think - that was right around the time you decided to die. He came back, of course, just like he always would, but you weren't there to see it. And then there was the time you left your heart on the kitchen table for him to see when he came in. I had all but taken over by then, but he made sure you didn't have anything left to live on. You don't remember him coming in or out of that door after that night, and neither do I.
That door is gone now, and there's a new pre-fab aluminum door in it's place. Your mother wanted it. Wanted something that gave her a sense of security. It's a joke, of course, because the frame is still just as weak. The thing is, Baby Sarah, he was a fuck. He still is. I see him sometimes. He's probably not going to change, and he might die soon. I hope that when he does he doesn't find you. I hope I find you first, wherever you are.
I'll write again soon, I promise.
Ever yours,
Sarah
