Behind the green door

Seek for me never,

Keep your course true

When I am needed

I'll come to you,

Then I will show you

Roads without end ---

Why do you fear me?

I am your friend.”

― Clarence E. Flynn

Behind the green door

Wouldn’t you love to know? Aren’t you curious, what it is exactly hiding behind that door? It stands there so proudly, showing off the gleaming green laquer, so new and refreshed. Quite the odd sight next to the decayed house. But oh, you don’t even seem to notice the house. The door is far to interesting. Ivy continues to climb around the frame, like hair falling around one’s face, growing, until sight is taken away. Come, lay your hand on the lock and throw it open. It is time.

The faintest hint of the smell of roses swirls in the air, a ray of autumn sun peeks through the branches of the weeping willow near the entrance. A soft breeze caresses my hair. The thin path winds into the distance, a few fallen leaves crunch under my feet. I frown, look up at the tree and run my fingertips over the bark. Rough like sandpaper. The shadow of the tree reaches further than it used to, yet on the left is still mother's rose garden. The roses proudly stick their pink heads up, as if they want to kiss the sun. Mother had always admired them, talked to them. Always humming happily with her red shovel. Further back, the grass is still quite green and the last bees are humming lazily around.

No rush. No rush.

At the back of the garden was father's pride. A rich vegetable garden, a true feast for every snail. Not that they were given the opportunity, he made sure of that. He defended his lettuce heads with the dedication of a protective mother swan. I turn around, but of course the well is still there. Impressive and sturdy. My hand dances down the rope, at one point raising the wooden bucket. Completely intact, after all these years? The same seems to apply to the swings that are near the pond. The wind becomes stronger, plays with them. Back and forth, back and forth. How often had I chased away the cats and herons that were preying on the fish? How long ago was that?

The garden appears smaller than I remember. There aren't many plants left, except for the hedge around it. So well-kept. Who actually looks after everything here? A loud crack startles me. I turn away from the pond with the speed of a spinning top and dive behind the hedge. My childhood location, and yet I feel like the intruder here. Two men in beige overalls enter the garden. Looking around, nodding to each other. “Remove everything and demolish it? Completely empty?” More nodding, sturdy work shoes walk out the door. I feel like I'm cemented to the ground. My legs are unstable, as if I have to learn to walk again. Demolish?

With all my courage gathered, I stand at the door waiting for them to return. After all, I can't run away from the past forever, can I? The men return and I clear my throat, but they walk right past me and start setting up their tools. Humiliated, the blood rises to my cheeks, as if I were a mercury thermometer. I reach out my hand, tap one of them to get their attention. That was the plan, anyway. My fingers, however, go right through his shoulder. I scream, pulling my hand back. They didn’t hear me scream either, continuing undisturbed. I look through the door again, into the garden.

The late summer colours of green, blue and yellow have suddenly made way for a dry, chilly autumn mixture. The roses are no longer pink. The colour has been drained from their cheeks and they hang limply towards the ground, almost begging for the earth to take them. The vegetable garden is far from what it used to be and the bucket lies rotten next to the crumbling well. The swings each hang entwined on a meagre rope as if it were a gallows. The pond is covered, sloppily, with planks. I don't know how I missed the three gravestones in front of the weeping willow. A cold hand wraps around my shoulder as I read the name on the last one. The ivy is sheared away, the sight it took is clear again. The green door fades in colour. Rust and mould spots crawl on it like fat toads.

It's time. Do you believe me now? You can't stay forever. Not here, anyway. The roses and crops are dying, the willow is sick. Illusion is manipulative. I've given you time. Take my hand, the one which does touch yours. Do not ignore me any longer. You exist, but not in this world. Making peace with the fact that you have to move on is difficult, I realize that. Close the door. There are people who want to welcome you on the other side. That's the only portal you'll ever have to go through again, I promise.

Author's note

This is a translated version of my highschool creative writing assignment when i was 16. It brought back my spark for writing, so while it may not be my best writing i still hold it very dear :)

xx