To Her Door

It’s as if all hunger has subsided, and I am without home. It isn’t a place of permanence as I am not permanent. I feel this in my bones, settling slowly as my brain lets go and my body reacts. The keys rattle in the ignition as I brush past them and reach for the bag on the passenger seat. The bag is frayed and tattered and blends into the green upholstery of the old Chevy. I touch the edge, and sit quietly for a moment, rubbing the loose thread back and forth through my fingers. A sigh escapes through my pursed lips and the space between my eyebrows contracts in a wrinkle. I look up into the review mirror and see the reflection of someone I don’t recognize. Her hair is matted and greasy and cumulous clouds have formed under her eyes. I reach up to push a escaped strand of gray behind her right ear. It’s a thoughtless move void of intention and lacking grace.

I slowly reach toward the bag again, and grappled with the strap. It’s canvas edges form to my hand as I heft it onto my lap. For a moment, I’m reminded that this is a trip I’ve made before. I’ve sat outside of this house waiting to gather what I need before opening the truck door; my luggage, my courage, my husband. Now my luggage consists of this one bag with a few pairs of jeans, some clean underwear, and a boxy old laptop. My husband is gone, and with him my courage. Courage doesn’t exist any more; it’s something that only exists when there is fear to overcome. Resignation is the default when you have nowhere left to go and no one left to be.

I take the rusty pliers, repurposed for years until they are synonymous with the door handle they replaced, and pull open the truck door. Gingerly, I heft my body out the the truck and place my tattered shoes on the wet ground. I look at the house reluctantly. Where it was once a place I feared to go, now it is my only home; my sole refuge. The light blue paint is peeling off the old bricks and the tin roof rusts and sags under the weight of passing years. As I start up the short walk, the screen door begins to bang rhythmically, giving a beat to the silence in my head. 

A crumbing stoop has given birth to the gray concrete dust that settles over the dried weeds of summers past. My footprints become washed away by the gentle rain as I arrive at the door. Almost apologetically, I knock. The sound is quiet enough that she will not hear it if she is not in the front room. It is as if I am a reluctant solicitor and not the widowed wife of her beloved son.