“It doesn’t feel right to mention this but…”

Somebody’s knocking at the door. It doesn’t sound like a hard knock, there’s a gentle weight that resonates through the timber of that darn door. Door’s been there for years now, he’s seen the likes of neighbors complaining about the racket at 2 in the morning, relatives coming over for a light chat, lovers cuddling after their first date, delivery men huddling over with packages, stray dogs sniffing around, quite frankly, he’s seen a lot. His hinges were once sparkling so much, they attracted elusive small talk from the ever-so-irritated neighbors. He once had a fairly round knob that would be able to silently rotate and welcome the presence of guests, yet now its stature was weathered away by the seasons. He once boasted a bright crimson exterior, so painfully out of place in a white house, yet oddly charming. Nowadays, the shades of crimson have been replaced with the hue of dirt and dull debris. He’s just really old. Some say old is gold, but it seems like he’s just getting older and less golden, at least in color. Nevertheless, he’s been there in every season, every moment, every waking step. He is the first to greet the guests, the last to see them off. He is the one who reminds them of a special type of comfort, only found in the confines of a home. He’s quiet, doesn’t complain about the rough slams after a long heated disagreement between residents, doesn’t moan about the neighbor’s hidden skill in banging the door so loud everyone in the house can hear it, doesn’t criticize the house’s cat for using him as her own personal nail file and surely doesn’t grumble about the pelting of rocks by local kids participating in a “who gets scolded by the neighbours first loses” contest. He’s very strong, stronger than the man of the household, strong enough to withstand the environmental harassment of storms, strong enough to shield guests from the sweltering summer heatwaves and strong enough to stand his ground as lovers lean on him on passionate nights. He doesn’t have a formal name, but people always remind each other not to forget about him as they leave. He’s made of wood, but he truly is the rock of the house.

Three whole knocks, each with a light injection of force, every booming beat echoed within the house. That darn door doesn’t speak much, but we can hear him all the way to the backyard. But other than his voice, the voice of a man, presumably in his 40s, presumably a heavy smoker, bellows through the Sunday morning air, “Hey, is anybody home?” I think that’s dad. Yeah, it must be dad. There’s no mistaking that gravelly tone of his. I think I should open the door for him. I raced towards that door and placed my left palm on the knob. It felt cold, it felt rough and it surely felt old. Man, he’s been through a lot, the door that now stood level to my height, a perennial symbol of the years rolling by, now stood before me, beyond his glory days. Dad’s voice grew louder, “Son, if you’re behind the door, I just want you to know that tomorrow, we’re going to fix this door.” With a weird gush of melancholy I muttered, “Feels like it’s a bit overdue at this point.” I opened the door and Dad went straight in. “You could hear him creaking a lot, his hinges just ain’t the same as they used to be,” Dad pointed out the obvious, “let’s get those new electric ones, the ones the neighbor has.” A part of me wanted to agree, it was logical to get rid of that darn door, yet why was it so hard to say yes, “I think this guy’s still got some left to offer.” Dad shook his head and gave a cynical prod, “Yeah, well it’s got some wood left to offer to the damn termites.” I snapped back, offended on behalf of that darn door, “knock it off Dad, show some respect to him.” Dad gave me a stern look for a few minutes, but he soon resigned to a mental agreement with me. We both fell silent, and we silently panned towards that darn door in an unusual fit of sympathy and mourning towards an inanimate object. It felt as if we were about to lose a family member, the gravity of tomorrow’s actions began to weigh on the both of us, or at least me. I never would have imagined that he would soon be gone. In an attempt to silence the loud silence I uttered, “It doesn’t feel right to mention this but, I’m going to miss that darn door.” Dad turned away and as he walked down the hallway I could hear the faintest whisper, “Me too, me too.”

The day after, men dressed in red came knocking on the door. This time, they were heavy knocks, violent and unforgiving, all carelessly hit in an erratic pattern. I rushed down the hallway, my feet thumping against ceramic tiles, loud enough to announce my presence to the men outside. When I reached him, I took a final glance at him. I had grown up to finally see him in all of his perfect imperfections, tall enough to finally see the cracks in his top rail, kind enough to rub out miscellaneous stains on his mullions and attentive enough to see his rusted hinges. As I peeked through the eyehole one last time, a wave of memories flashed before my eyes. All the people I anticipated to come by, all the relatives I waited for and people dearest to me who left, they all had to pass through him. “Hi guys, just wait a second, I’m having trouble opening the door,” I urged the group of men outside to remain calm, but I lied. It’s actually very easy to open the door. But it’s very hard to turn the handle. My left palm wrapped around his handle and I was holding back the river within the corners of my eyes. Why was it so hard to let go? It’s just a door right? I wish it just was. I wish it was just some random door that I can throw away and not think about. But for 22 years of my life, he never changed and he was always there to accept anyone and everything. But even he knew, it was his time to leave. So I opened that darn door for the last time. I wish I never opened that darn door. I wish I never lost you, my friend.