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Behind the Colonial Red Door

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Sitting alone in the dark, at the old, round, wooden kitchen table they  received as a hand-me-down from her parents, she couldn’t help but remember. It was as if she were watching a film reel play back the most precious moments of her life. Images of holiday gatherings, Sunday family dinners, kids doing homework, and a much younger version of herself pulling a high chair up to the table to give her babies their first meals flashed before her eyes in what seemed like fast forward.

Though he should’ve  been home hours ago, she sat waiting in the dark silence of the night. She knew he would tell her that he had been “slammed all day at the office,” and for a minute she desperately wished she could believe him.

Immediately she recognized the creak of the Colonial Red front door when he finally showed up. In that moment, she remembered the day they painted the front door. They were so proud of themselves for completing a home improvement job on their very own house; their first house, the house they would someday raise their children in, and later grow old together in.

Surprised to see her sitting in the dark he recoiled a bit at the sight of her. Obviously upset, he asked her what was wrong. When she answered “I know everything,” he became defensive and attempted an argument.

Her mind already made up she bluntly stated, “This is done. I’m going to bed.” Relieved that she seemed to be coming to her senses he answered, “You’re right. Let’s be done with this and get a good nights sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

Her back toward him, she repeated herself, lowering her voice and once again telling him, “This is done,” and continued to walk towards the stairs that would lead her to her bedroom.

It was him now who saw his life flash before his eyes for he recognized the slight nuances in both her tone and body language. And he knew she was done.

 

 

 

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