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The door was open.

I hesitated halfway down the staircase, looking into the yawning cavern. Mom kept the door shut because you could see right into the room.

Soft reminders echoed in my ears.

“Close the door. I don’t want to see.”

“Close the door. I don’t want the reminder.”

“Close the door….just….close the door.”

I crept down the last three stairs. Did she forget something? Was there anything left to take? Was she in there now?

My fingers brushed the wood at the threshold. Four idents marked the bed’s place: the only marks left. The spots left by the dressers and nightstands had long since faded away.

I couldn’t see the closet from here. It was along the same wall as the entrance. Ears strained to pick up any sound, I lost my balance and stumbled a step into the room.

I hadn’t been in here since that night. It wasn’t hard to enter. It was the hardest thing I had done.

That first step into the room was the longest. I held my breath to see if anyone noticed the intrusion.

No movement. No sound from the closet. No shadows indicating someone was in the bathroom around the corner.

I edged further into the room.

Someone left the shutters open. Light streamed in, stenciled patterns on the floor. My toes hovered on the edge of one of the designs.

The closet gaped open to my left. Only two boxes and a bent frame from some unidentifiable object there. The bathroom, a few feet farther along that wall, burned brightest of all, white walls reflecting the light from the window. Everything empty, but all windows and doors open.

I stared at the window directly facing the room, remembering the snow that piled up one day, a rare occurrence in the desert. The bright grin on her face as we sang every Christmas song we could think of, cramming four verses into one since we couldn’t think of all of the words. Borrowing scarves and mismatching gloves because when was the last time we had used them? Wondering if it was safe to drive. It was only an inch. But an inch in the desert. That made all the difference.

I folded my legs beneath me, tracing the sunlight with a forefinger.

She hid the first few boxes here, under the bed. No one knew but me because I’m a younger snoop.

Maybe she’s just getting rid of a few things. Maybe she’s just making more room. Maybe…maybe…

Maybe was no match for definitely. Definitely putting beloved books and movies in. Definitely including cherished photographs. Definitely indicating out.

Each angered word created closet space. Every slammed door another empty drawer. Boxes crept out from under the bed to boldly take residence on the floor.

I won’t say goodbye. The thought motivating the action of getting my younger sister in the car. Driving far from the last argument, the last box, the last piece of furniture.

She can’t leave without a goodbye.

Her car missing from the driveway.

She can’t leave.

The room gaping empty.

Without a goodbye.

Gone.