The Locked Door by Silverdog

The Locked Door

The taxi dropped me off at 1 am that night. After the driver pulled out of sight, I was alone on the veranda, surrounded with suitcases, and suddenly filled with anxiety. This was the house I had lived in as a young girl, and I stood there feeling very old and yet curiously, young and apprehensive like a teenager sneaking in after curfew. Under the welcome mat, I found the key, just where it was forty five years ago, and as I picked it up, the trepidation grew and I realized for the first time just how alone I really was. The key was worn, attached to a doubled loop of pipe stem cleaner. I had forgotten about Dad’s pipes, Edgewood Tobacco, and the ritual of tamping it just right, and lighting it before settling into the armchair for the evening. Dad had passed away thirteen years earlier and even though I held so many memories of him, I had forgotten about his pipe. I became annoyed with myself for this, and then vexed that my mind rambled on so disjointedly. I was here to pack up the furniture, clean the house and put it on the market. It was a huge task and I didn’t have time for sentimentality just now. My father was very decisive and forthright, —he wouldn’t want me bemoaning what couldn’t be changed.

A lump grew in my throat, as I fingered the smooth brass, thinking of all the times I had entered that door before. Sometimes sneaking in late with practiced nonchalance, other times rushing in excitedly with good news to share, and sometimes brusquely bypassing the kitchen for the calm sanctuary of my own room. I slammed that same door when I stormed out at 17, promising never to return. Ten years later I brought my husband through that door, to meet my folks, filled with the same sort of uncertainty. Would they approve? Would he approve of my parents? In later years, I lugged diaper bags and babies through that door, and even later my father was wheeled on a gurney through the same portal for the last time. I knew that at the end of the month, I would be locking this door for the last time too. All these thoughts overwhelmed me and I suddenly wished I hadn’t come. It had been a three-day train trip to get to Stratford, and I longed for the serenity of my little cabin back in the Cariboo. I fondled the key in my pocket, and sat on the steps watching snow fall lazily under the streetlamp. Tears welling in my eyes gave each snowflake an iridescent aura, and I was mesmerized by their sparkling waltz. The key grew warm in my hand, as if inviting me to enter. I rose from the step, remarkably calm now, and eager to go inside. The snow was now more like a fine mist, swirling like smoke under the streetlamp. As I turned the key, I thought I caught a faint whiff of Edgewood tobacco. At last, after 45 years, I was really home.