Red Door by Liliana Amador-Marty
I've learned people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but
people will never forget how you made them feel.
- Maya Angelou
The wooden house on a grey, frigid beach, was isolated on a steep sandy dune. Bitterly cold flurries accumulated, freezing on wet stepping stones leading up a path to a decrepit porch, its concrete foundation and crumbling steps still bracing. The pale woman stood at the end of the gravel road below blankly staring up at the vacant house, full of ghosts, its white skin peeling away in distress exposing raw cedar. Cutting winds blew her long hair into a tangled mess, its sharp ends whipping her cheeks stinging her face and neck randomly like tiny cuts she never saw coming.
She too was in a state of disrepair, detached like shingles on the old house. Like the frayed window curtains flapping violently in the wind, her spirit faded and like cracked pillars barely holding, she was unstable, frail, her grey hair thin, grey eyes empty. Silenced, her rich emotional inner-life was squelched like raging fires in a downpour; an invalidated woman dismissing the shadow she herself cast. The sight of the red door still intact filled her with dread creeping up the right side of her neck tightening the muscle into a rock. Triggered by shame, she stood distraught in her mental prison, unable to move towards the house. The red door, never locked. Ever free to leave. The young woman never did.
It had been snowing for days, flakes swirling directionless in heavy winds. Wearing only a long, thin sweater, she had returned to reclaim her dignity. A gust from behind shocked her out of her stupor pushing her halfway uphill before knocking her forward onto muddy gravel. Falling onto her knees, scraped them on jagged stepping stones beneath, cutting her palms on sharp rocks around the pavers. Mud seeped through her ripped jeans at the knees and into her white, canvas sneakers, feet in icy dirty pools. Sitting back exhausted onto her calves, wet ground against her shins, she defiantly wiped her bleeding hands with the bottom of her t-shirt.
Snow turned to sleet. Windy, icy rain confused in fits and starts, stopped abruptly veering violently in opposite directions as if manipulated by large invisible hands, purposefully pushing, shoving. Hair whipping her cheeks and eyelids, she grabbed the lapels of her grey sweater tugging before crossing one arm over the other, wrapping them around herself. Holding tightly, she pressed her crossed arms against her chest, shoulders to ears shivering and gently rocking. Staring out over the ocean, the woman distantly watched angry waves crash onto dark boulders, wind dancing around her. Poised, she sat gripping her toes into the snowy bank until daylight had grown black.
White caps bathed in moonlight rushed towards shore. In the skyline, a bright heavy moon cast a beam of white light on the water's surface. Far out in the darkness, a lighthouse. Once her beacon, the gaslight flickered like glints of missed warning signs. Long last, she had chosen to leave opening the unlocked red door, calmly walking away on the sand towards the lighthouse, never looking back nor returning. From afar, noxious interactions had become sharply clear. Damage had been done; changes to her brain and sensibilities. Her essence once reflective, responsive to action, now injured, unhealed by time alone.
The woman suddenly gasped for air releasing a quiet squeal. Pressure building in her chest, a fire lit the pit of her stomach. Clutching her throat, jugular swelling, heat raced through her veins upward to her face. Ears inflamed, she shed tears midway between entrapment and freedom. Sobbing deeply, she retched repeatedly. Drawing cold air through her nose, to the back of her throat sighing profoundly, her breath ghostlike in the crisp air. Head draped exposing her neck, a tear caressed her cheek.
A sudden calm subsided the storm. Stars revealed themselves and she was clear. Today she would liberate herself kicking the red door off its hinges, releasing it of its frame, drag it down the hill towards the beach, build a bonfire and watch it burn. Then to shock her system back to life, would walk into the frigid sea cleansing her spirit in its cold, briny, raging waters like the ones buried deep within her.
The moon lit her way as she crawled up the hill emboldened, bloody knees and hands sliding on icy stones, warm moisture leaking from her nostrils. Heart pounding the woman stood up undeterred. Clutching her sweater at the throat, she leaned forward, dug her toes into the snow bank and trudged up the slippery slope. Howling winds advancing at her back no longer steering, were now a buttress. Nearing the top of the frozen dune, her eyes skimmed the shore with its dark boulders obstructing the water's ebb and flow. Curling waves tumbled ferociously over one crashing hard against another, tides rising, falling, always receding. The gaslight had gone out. Far in the distance healing lay on the horizon.
She too was in a state of disrepair, detached like shingles on the old house. Like the frayed window curtains flapping violently in the wind, her spirit faded and like cracked pillars barely holding, she was unstable, frail, her grey hair thin, grey eyes empty. Silenced, her rich emotional inner-life was squelched like raging fires in a downpour; an invalidated woman dismissing the shadow she herself cast. The sight of the red door still intact filled her with dread creeping up the right side of her neck tightening the muscle into a rock. Triggered by shame, she stood distraught in her mental prison, unable to move towards the house. The red door, never locked. Ever free to leave. The young woman never did.
It had been snowing for days, flakes swirling directionless in heavy winds. Wearing only a long, thin sweater, she had returned to reclaim her dignity. A gust from behind shocked her out of her stupor pushing her halfway uphill before knocking her forward onto muddy gravel. Falling onto her knees, scraped them on jagged stepping stones beneath, cutting her palms on sharp rocks around the pavers. Mud seeped through her ripped jeans at the knees and into her white, canvas sneakers, feet in icy dirty pools. Sitting back exhausted onto her calves, wet ground against her shins, she defiantly wiped her bleeding hands with the bottom of her t-shirt.
Snow turned to sleet. Windy, icy rain confused in fits and starts, stopped abruptly veering violently in opposite directions as if manipulated by large invisible hands, purposefully pushing, shoving. Hair whipping her cheeks and eyelids, she grabbed the lapels of her grey sweater tugging before crossing one arm over the other, wrapping them around herself. Holding tightly, she pressed her crossed arms against her chest, shoulders to ears shivering and gently rocking. Staring out over the ocean, the woman distantly watched angry waves crash onto dark boulders, wind dancing around her. Poised, she sat gripping her toes into the snowy bank until daylight had grown black.
White caps bathed in moonlight rushed towards shore. In the skyline, a bright heavy moon cast a beam of white light on the water's surface. Far out in the darkness, a lighthouse. Once her beacon, the gaslight flickered like glints of missed warning signs. Long last, she had chosen to leave opening the unlocked red door, calmly walking away on the sand towards the lighthouse, never looking back nor returning. From afar, noxious interactions had become sharply clear. Damage had been done; changes to her brain and sensibilities. Her essence once reflective, responsive to action, now injured, unhealed by time alone.
The woman suddenly gasped for air releasing a quiet squeal. Pressure building in her chest, a fire lit the pit of her stomach. Clutching her throat, jugular swelling, heat raced through her veins upward to her face. Ears inflamed, she shed tears midway between entrapment and freedom. Sobbing deeply, she retched repeatedly. Drawing cold air through her nose, to the back of her throat sighing profoundly, her breath ghostlike in the crisp air. Head draped exposing her neck, a tear caressed her cheek.
A sudden calm subsided the storm. Stars revealed themselves and she was clear. Today she would liberate herself kicking the red door off its hinges, releasing it of its frame, drag it down the hill towards the beach, build a bonfire and watch it burn. Then to shock her system back to life, would walk into the frigid sea cleansing her spirit in its cold, briny, raging waters like the ones buried deep within her.
The moon lit her way as she crawled up the hill emboldened, bloody knees and hands sliding on icy stones, warm moisture leaking from her nostrils. Heart pounding the woman stood up undeterred. Clutching her sweater at the throat, she leaned forward, dug her toes into the snow bank and trudged up the slippery slope. Howling winds advancing at her back no longer steering, were now a buttress. Nearing the top of the frozen dune, her eyes skimmed the shore with its dark boulders obstructing the water's ebb and flow. Curling waves tumbled ferociously over one crashing hard against another, tides rising, falling, always receding. The gaslight had gone out. Far in the distance healing lay on the horizon.
Photo by Liliana Amador Marty, Seven Mile Beach, New Jersey, 2024
