Waiting at the Back Door.

Reflections of life in the aged back door. (A winner of The Writer's Cramp contest.)

Waiting at the Back Door

I wait, patiently.
Each knot in the worn hardwood
speaks to me as though I had been here before,
which of course, I have,
only this time, I will not rush.
She has time to say goodbye.

It was deliberate that I arrived early,
not wanting to be a thief in the night.
As the back door opens, a worn hinge speaks of their pain.
They brush past me unaware of my presence.
The unspoken tension streaks behind them
in vibrant misty color.

I touch the wood.
It is cool to my fingers and shrouded in mystery,
filled with dreams and laughter, with tears and regrets.
All back doors bear the same resemblance,
but this one has energy unlike many others,
It is welcoming and filled with love.

I did not enter.
She knew I was there waiting, patiently.
And then, her heart reached out to me,
as she passed through that door,
ready to embrace the warmth of new life,
to dance on the wings of angels.

The back door was her friend.
she had grown with it,
had felt the peace of returning home, and the excitement of leaving.
She had followed its old knotted reverence, its aged path.
Now turning back with the love of a spirit at peace, she reached out
And gently pressed the back door closed.

30 Lines
Writer's Cramp Contest.