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