Ghost

          In front of my childhood room closet, I stand, arm outstretched toward the knob, nervous as if there’s a monster inside. Or a skeleton. Downstairs, my sister is busy sorting through your belongings, choosing what goes into which box: SAVE, DONATE, or DISCARD. Though you and I have always been close, it’s been years since I’ve been in my room. Bed made, Limp Bizkit poster on the wall, a finished Millennium Falcon Lego set on my desk. All of it brings back memories. There’s one, though, I don’t have but wish I did: your reaction to me telling you who I really am. I open the closet door, and brightness fills the interior. Empty. No hangars. No moths. No cobwebs. Maybe this closet is what truth is like—bare, dressed up by nothing, light the only thing that can illumine it. Truth. Though I like the word, I also fear it. You, on the other hand, weren’t afraid of it. Or at least never seemed frightened. Instead, you made it part of your mantra:  

          Nothing’s more important, or scarier, than truth. When I stole money from your wallet for Pokémon cards, you said it. When I “borrowed” your car to go joyriding, you said it again. When I wanted to quit cross-country because my grades had begun to slip, you also said it. And when, in the middle of the semester, I tearfully told you that I wanted to withdraw from school, you said it. If I admitted I don’t like girls, though, what would you have said? That there’s nothing more important, or scarier, than truth? I don’t know. Sadly, now, I’ll never. What I do know is that because of what you said, I never again stole. That I made the Dean’s list and my team and I, regionals. That I stayed and graduated cum laude from the University of Chicago. 

          “Are you coming?” my sister’s voice, distant though firm, calls out. “I can’t do this by myself.” 

          “Just a minute.” As I close the closet, I sigh. You’re gone. Nothing can change that. Nor could I have changed you, any more than I can change who I am. But I can change how I live. “Sis?” 

          “Yeah?” my sister’s voice, clearly impatient, responds. 

            As I move toward the door, I gulp. “Can I tell you something?” 

          “I’d rather you do it while you’re helping me pack Mom’s stuff.” 

          “Remember what she used to tell us?” I exit my room, closing the door behind me. 

          I hear my sister unrolling tape. “She told us a lot things.” 

          “No, I mean about there being nothing more important, or scarier, than truth?” I start down the stairs. 

          “Kind of, I guess.” The sound of packing tape on cardboard. “You know, I never knew how many things she kept.” 

          As I reach the bottom, I can see my sister. Her back is to me. “Yeah, she didn’t tell us everything.” 

          “True,” my sister turns around, “but she never lied.” 

          Fidgeting with my hands, I nod. 

          “You’re more like her, I think.” My sister smiles at me. 

          It’s now or never. “I’m trying to be.” 

          My sister furrows her brows. “Everything okay?” 

          I’m now looking at the half-packed boxes, picture frames in one, records in another, china in yet another. In my sister’s hands are tape and bubble wrap. Except her hands are bony and veiny. They’re yours. Like a ghost, you linger in front of me. Maybe you knew all along. Maybe you were just waiting. Though spooked by what you might say in response, I proceed to tell you the truth.