“When I was a little girl, my mother used to tell me about her. At night she would sit on the side of my bed and tell me stories about my sibling in Indiana -- how my sibling was happy. She would tell me about all the adventures my sibling was having and how I would meet her someday. I loved the stories.”
“That’s a good memory,” I say, not knowing what else to say.
“It was for a while. Then I told her I wanted to go to Indiana and meet my sibling. She said I would someday. I guess that day has come,” she says.
“I’m sorry it had to be like this,” I attempt to comfort.
“She said I would someday, and now I have. You know, she would tell me these stories every day, and I would say over and over I wanted to go to Indiana. She said we couldn’t go now, but we never did. I swear, at some point, I decided Indiana didn’t even exist. I didn’t believe in Indiana. I could see it on a map, but I had never been there. It wasn’t real to me,” she continues.
“It’s all too real,” I state.
“It certainly is,” she says. “I would like to sit with her for a while.”
“Okay,” I say. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be outside the door.”
Within seconds of me closing the door, she begins to sing. I stand and listen to her voice, waiting for her to open the door.
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