I was tucking Tiller in tonight and she called out to me. “Mama! Come close my closet door!”
I sighed, went back in, like every other night I tuck her in, and closed the closet door.
“Why do you want me to close the closet door?”
“It scares me.”
“Why does it scare you? You know there is nothing in your closet that will hurt you, baby.”
On second thought: Mentally picturing closet in Poltergeist, momentarily considering telling her, “well, there might be something in there,” thinking of my closet in Roswell, the one that I did not leave open at night until . . . ever.
“Okay, baby, it’s closed. But there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Will you close my books, too?”
Her bookshelf has doors, and three shelves. The top two shelves hold books. The bottom shelf is where we fold and store her PJs and nightgowns.
“Sure baby. You know there is nothing in there either, though.”
“I know, Mama. Just sometimes it looks like people are in the clothes.”