When You Walk Through the Door

We used to read books that told secrets. Secrets that were spoken to us through voices, reminding us of forgotten fables, etched with lessons of how to love. I remember a book that we always enjoyed reading; its cover seemed so cold and dark, but inside, many adventures unfolded.

In this book, on page 9, a door was introduced, handcrafted by wood weathered and splinted with time. Behind this door was a room sheltered by stone walls heavy with stories that were strewn about like vines that grew from every crevice and corner. In the middle of the room, there was a table big enough to seat two, maybe three - woven and cross-stitched to perfection with so much love, there was no room for error. To the left of the table was a bed where a mom and a boy lay reading books. You could tell these were some of the boys' favorite books, the way he giggled and laughed, listening intently until he dreamed of them. His mom, pronouncing every word with love, so much love that they would come alive and jump into the boy's heart.

The bed faced a window, that changed with time. A circular window carved into the stone wall, framed by Dad's big scarred hands. This glass artifact was placed high on the wall, so the boy, at 7 years of age, could not reach it himself and gaze into what they called the distance. Maybe in a couple of years, he told himself as he stared at it with wonder, as expansive as the distance he heard about in his books.

One day, I would like to see through the window and see the outside with new lenses.

His mom had read him many books that tell of vast rolling hills under a sky so blue, with flying creatures that they called birds. And sometimes those birds would sing to you in a tone so calming you would just close your eyes and smile. They’d even talked about trees… these things that grew many stories high, with arms! Can you believe it… Arms made from the most lovely chapped material you have ever seen. And each arm held a little paper-like object on the end called a leaf. His mom said these were memories that the tree was holding on to.

One day, I would like to have as many memories as the trees.

When the boy was 9, he was able to see out the window by himself. He was fascinated by the distance; it was exactly like the books his mom read. There was this one particular crisp day, you could see the leaves changing colors; his mom said this was called fall. As the boy and his mom watched through the window, they saw memories falling from the tree, one after another. Piles and piles of lost memories, so beautiful in the golden light of fall. The mom grabbed the boy by the hand and said, “Let's go play in the memories,” and took him through the weathered and splinted wooden door, disappearing into the distance.

I never knew what to think of that story, whether to be happy the boy got to feel love and all the memories the tree held, or sad that the tree lost its memories. What I do know is that one day I hope to step outside that marble door and see the tree with new memories grown.

We read these books from a room behind a wooden door weathered and splinted with time. Time that came and went with seasons that changed and little boys that grew up listening to their mom tell stories.

A door that stayed untouched until I became curious.

My first steps through that door were terrifying; it was a whole new world to me. But what I saw left me in awe. Vast rolling hills under a sky so blue, birds flying in formation, spotlighted by the golden light of fall. And in the middle of it all was a tree full of memories, and under it was a boy and a mom reading their favorite book.