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March 22, 2024

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. 

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