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.
.
.
.
Thanks to Heather Monkmeyer for giving me three words as a prompt for this 100-word story:
Cold
Bulb
Watch
🙂
