Door
The back door would not open. She stood on the inside turning the knob, pulling on the door. It would not open.
So she called a man who knows about doors. He came over and looked at it.
“It will not open,” she said.
The man, who wore a yellow t-shirt tucked into black pants, put his palm on the wooden door. He closed his eyes.
She waited. He stayed that way a long time. She wondered if she should close her eyes, too.
The man with the yellow shirt leaned his ear against the door, just above his hand.
Finally, the man opened his eyes and stood up straight. He put his hands in the pockets of his black pants.
“It’s not ready,” he said.
“Ready?” she asked.
“You cannot fix a door that will not open.”
“But,” she said. “You’re a door expert. The door is broken.”
“You cannot fix a door that will not open,” the man repeated.
She took a deep breath. She said, “I really need to go in and out this door. It’s important.”
“It will open when it’s ready to open,” the man said. He pulled his parka on and pulled the hood up over his head. “In the meantime, you can use the other door.” He pointed at the front. “It works just fine. You can go on out that door and walk around. Easy,” he said.
“But that’s silly,” she said. “A back door is here for a reason. Now it might as well be a wall.”
“Sometimes walking around is better than walking through,” the man said from under his hood.
She followed the man out through the front door. The winter air made her shiver.
She watched the man drive away in his truck. She turned to go back inside, but something stopped her. She walked around the side of the house to the back door, the one that would not open. She stood looking at it from the outside. She put her hand on it and then her ear. She closed her eyes.
The cold sky held a bright sun.
It warmed her.
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