Close your eyes she says
you're walking down a street you barely recognize
suddenly in the distance you see that old maple tree
your mother used to carve your heights into
and the yellow brick devoured by beautiful ivy
that's now taller than you ever could have imagined.
The bright red door invites you inside,
you're stepping on the floor he laid,
out the corner of your eye you see the fireplace he built from scratch
she beckons you to look past that and go forward
up the winding staircase
first door on your left once you reach the top step.

Inside you expect to find your bedroom at age five
but all I see is an old bed with stuffed animals strewn across it.
I grab one, take a seat on the floor
and wait for him to come bursting through the door
to scoop me up in his big arms and promise me
that he isn't going anywhere again.
I wait.
I wait.
I wait for a moment I know will never come
unless I keep my eyes shut.