the green door...

I woke up in the quiet darkness of the morning. I looked over at my clock. It wasn't that early; already seven o'clock. The sun is usually streaming in my window at seven o'clock determined to force me out of my coziness and into the day. But not this morning. It was still rather dark outside and utterly still. There are usually some birds chirping or dogs barking, but not this morning. All the same, I was awake so I rolled out of bed, put on my slippers and bathrobe and walked to the back door to let the dogs outside.

I stood on the porch for a few moments, blinking the lingering sleep out of my eyes. I blinked again. Was it getting darker? Surely not. The sky was gray with a thick blanket of clouds. A slight breeze began to rustle the leaves of the oak tree. It was getting darker. Then I heard the first drops. Pit-pat-pat-pat-pit-pit. The dogs heard it too and hastily scurried back onto the porch, for the wind was picking up now. The wind chimes hanging in the dogwood began to sway and sing. And then it seemed that night had won a wrestling match with day as the darkness settled over the sky and ground, and the storm began to flex its muscles. The rain was pounding down now and the wind swept up against the house in a steady rhythm. I saw the first flash of lightning and heard the low rumble of thunder in the distance. The momentary glimpse of light seemed to bounce off of every corner of the yard and then disappear again into the dark shadows.

The dogs were getting anxious now and beat their tails against the door, begging me to let them back inside. I sighed and conceded to their whining. I stopped short of stepping back into the kitchen. Something about the back door seemed familiar. I’m not sure whether it was the large tri-paned window looking out to the porch or the chipped green paint that curled up around the edges, tempting me to peel it off in long strips, but it was definitely familiar. It made me think of my Grandmother’s kitchen door.

Although it has been many years since her death, I can still remember her kitchen door. It was a Dutch door with two doorknobs. The top half held a large window which opened to the back patio and the sharp fragrance of boxwoods. On the bottom half a nail hung a long string of old metal bells which made loud jangling noises every time the door opened and closed. The sound was like a cathedral of cow bells, all ringing at different times with slightly different tones. As a child, I could reach the bottom doorknob with ease and took great joy in opening the bottom half and creeping outside as if I were a rabbit peering out of my rabbit hole. My sister and I always preferred to use the kitchen door instead of the front door for this very reason. It was as if the door was made specifically for curious children who couldn't decide if they wanted to be inside or out.

My Grandmother’s door was painted green, like mine, only a bit darker. Her door was painted to match the olive colored cabinets and sage colored refrigerator in the kitchen. Like the door, it was a curious kitchen. A small black and white television sat on the edge of the counter with tall bunny ear antennas straining to hold a signal. The cabinets held treasures and secrets. I knew which cabinet held the cinnamon sugar and which held the life cereal and the raisin bran. And I also knew that behind the raisin bran was hidden an olive-green rotary telephone. It was exactly the same color green as the inside of the cereal cabinet where it sat camouflaged. It might have gone unnoticed to the unsuspecting breakfaster, if not for the startling, old fashioned ring which sounded like a bell being hammered with mallets.

Breakfast was my favorite meal at her house. I remember waking up before the sun and tiptoeing down the dark, silent hallway, through the living room and into the green glow flooding out of the kitchen where my Grandmother stood by the stove in her colored housecoat cooking sausage patties and watching gray images flicker on that tiny old television set.

Yes, the back door was definitely similar to my Grandmother's. Perhaps that's why it so quickly felt like home here after I moved in. I let the memories wash over me for a moment. I was a child again, and there standing before me was the image of the quiet, petite woman who reigned in that small green kitchen over all its quirks and secrets.

I grinned to myself. It's time for breakfast, I thought. And I walked to the stove and put the kettle on.