Monday, September 22, 2014

The Door to Nowhere


could just have easily been named the door to everywhere,


but as children, we tended to think what could be contained,


looked out from, was the point of reference. Our home was


anything but safe. Loaded guns lurked in nightstand drawers,


pornography was coffee table art, and we were too young


to be left alone as often as we were. To pass the time, we wrote


the names of rock bands on our school folders, copied


from my father’s album collection. We took turns


lying on our stomachs in front of the milk crate


where the records were alphabetized, our heads cocked


to read the vertical lettering. If we felt brave, we would


slide the cover out, never removing it all the way


because we were certain our father would know.


Even if we could put it back in the correct slot,


some dust-smear or fingerprint would reveal


our disobedience, the crossing of the imaginary line


between permitted and forbidden, a line that shifted


or vanished entirely at times. The door


was a sliding glass patio door with no patio below,


mocking the way an accident can so quickly


become a tragedy.
 
--April Salzano

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