Morphine Ghost

Not crying. Weeping. Slow enough that I could count the seconds between each breath, like she was listening for something in the walls before letting herself make another sound. I almost went to her room, but then I realized the noise wasn't coming from behind her door. It was coming from directly outside mine. When I finally worked up the nerve to look into the hallway, she was asleep in bed. I checked twice. I stood there watching her chest rise and fall while the weeping continued somewhere behind me. She asked me over breakfast why I was staring at her hands. I didn't tell her they were wet.

I think she's pretending not to hear it. That's the worst part. Every time it starts, she turns the television up a little louder or begins humming to herself. Today I asked her who was crying outside my room, and she smiled the way parents smile when children ask impossible questions. She said, "No one who matters." Then she squeezed my shoulder so hard I couldn't move until she let go. Tonight I'm putting a chair under the doorknob. Not to keep something out. To keep myself from opening it when the weeping starts again.