That door

I’ve watched that locked wooden door for decades. Today on a walk, imagining, I step closer. It is tall, and deep crimson.

Painted slowly.

Its round brass doorknob begs to be turned, and its keyhole is big enough to look through.

I kneel to look, and I see cold spring grass, green as only California hills can green it. Lilacs and daffodils, sprung wild from bulbs even the squirrels forgot. Live oaks and laurels; wild-rye and trillium; rare pallid manzanitas that grow only between here and El Sobrante.

I stumble back, stand, blink.

Good God, it’s not what I thought.

Getaway

Just as I pushed “Up,” the elevator doors opened, and out stepped a guy in a tweed overcoat, buttoned, collar up. A hospital gown peeked out below the coat, barely covering the spindly bare knees, and bright yellow no-slip socks covered his feet. He shot me a guilty look, then broke into a trot as he hustled across the lobby toward the doors.

“Wait!” I shouted, as he exited into the winter sunshine. “Stan!”

The guard behind the lobby desk followed Stan with his eyes, then turned to me.

“No worries,” he said. “Happens all the time. We’ll get ‘im.”

Sleep on the Hearth

-100-word stories

That door

Getaway