Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Sharlett Hunt

July 8, 2006

The Door

by

Magdalena James

The door hung ajar. Not open, quite, and not closed either. Just ajar. It didn't seem to be open enough for something large to pass through, and it wasn't closed enough to keep something small from leaving. The spirits of the room often wondered, if the door had been left that way as it was being closed or opened. It intrigued them as they sat within the room and pondered the door.

The very top edge of the door had a thick film of dust on it. Once in awhile, the wind that replaced the glass where the portal of heated sand had once been placed rippled lightly against the dust that rested on top of the door. An old curtain rod, left by mistake, hung lopsided from one edge of the broken window. Its remnants of fabric blew easily in the breezes that refreshed the room with the door.

Not once did the spirits of the room attempt to fix the curtain. It was accepted. It's faded blue and yellow patterns danced happily with the weather. And when the days were calm, it hung there, with only the rolled edges that faced the sun, becoming more and more faded, until unrecognizable stripes of white were revealed where the blue and yellow patterns should have been.

An old, empty bed frame sat across from the door. Its mattress, folded in half, lay sleeping at the foot of the bed. The wires that made up its support were wonderfully tied into knots that led from one to the other, creating a support that gives just a bit in the middle. It was be a comfortable bed, the spirits devised. Yet they never made it. They never slept in it. Instead, they watched as the faded blue and yellow curtain danced with the wind as they pondered the door ajar.

On particularly windy days, the door moved delicately on its hinges. Perhaps an inch either way, the wind gave the door a voice. It's hinges, un-oiled but strong, held it in place as it swung -as it moved in rhythm with the curtains. As if it had life, it moved. But only a little life - that could not remove the dust from its top edge.

A regular brass handle had been married to it. Dull and tarnished from years of use, it sat proudly, sticking out a bit into the room. The spirits never turned the handle. It was like the bed, in a sense. It had use, but none that could be measured in this room. Use, was of nothing to the spirits - only the dance of the curtains and the door ajar.

The dusty wooden floor reached from one end of the room to the other. It reached out and escaped beneath the door, to enter into a world unseen and untouched by the spirits. Their gentle fingers traced the lines where the floorboards touched each other. The lines had a count, but no spirit had the desire to know such a fact. To touch the lines, was to know enough.

The door hung ajar. Not open, quite, and not closed either. Just ajar. Just a thing to ponder.

Magdalena James

wynter@wynter.ca