What I Drew

She drew hers with windows—

two upstairs, two down,

and a door in the middle

that opened onto a lawn

covered in flowers,

yellow and red and purple,

and a sun in the corner

beaming down like it was proud

of the whole scene.

I drew mine without thinking,

and when I looked at it,

I saw a house with no windows,

just a closed door,

and a fence around the whole thing,

tall enough to block

whatever was trying to look in,

whatever was trying

to get out.

She asked why mine looked sad.

I said it didn't.

She said it did.

I looked at the two drawings

side by side on the same piece of paper,

hers full of light and entry,

mine full of barriers,

and I realized I'd drawn

what I was afraid to say,

that I'd drawn the inside of my own chest,

that I'd made a picture

of the way I live—

protected and locked

and unreachable,

and my niece, who is seven,

had read it

like it was written in plain language,

like I'd simply written the words:

I don't know how to let anyone in.