The Ruby Door

A small flat. Door the color of rubies, of roses, of ripe strawberries waiting to be picked. Windows overlooking the street of quaint houses in neat rows like so many dominoes. Thatched rooves like witch’s hats, brick chimneys in a thousand different shades of red, from pale aquarelle to deep crimson.

A lion knocker mounted to the door, once a shining gold but now rusty and browning with age and use. So many hands, large, small, dainty, gloved, grasping the knocker to offer a greeting, or a condolence, or some homemade walnut brownies.

Soft carpet cushioning bare feet on cold mornings, narrow spiral staircase that creaks on the third step even when it is most inconvenient. Solid doors. Solid walls. Solid roof. Not-so-solid windows, for they must open to let the light and life into the house on sunny mornings.

Petite bedrooms, wooden bedstead carved with the shape of the sun. Patchwork quilts, bright hues all over the color spectrum. Lively gold. Serene turquoise. Calming fern. Tables and desks of oak, cluttered with books and paper and tiny figurines of animals in jewel-like colors.

Unkempt garden, tiny but bursting with plants of all colors and sizes. Cobble path leading through our own little jungle, a slice of paradise for those rare sunny days, to sit in the shade of a tree. To listen to the gentle swish of the branches and the chirps of the birds, to feel, just for a moment, serene.

Walnut-leather couch worn with time, beside the coffee-table that’s just the right distance away from the couch to rest your feet on, even though it’s not allowed. Bright curtains to soften the glare of the sun on days when it becomes unbearable, instead reflecting soft light in shades of blue and purple.

Small kitchen, bursting with sound and motion. Light streaming in through the windows, illuminating the colorful dishes and minor disasters spread around the kitchen. Wooden table, covered in a perpetually crooked tablecloth made from hundreds of scraps of material that others deemed unsalvageable.

It may be just a flat, but it’s ours.
Too much to notice, until it’s all gone.

Boxes, boxes, boxes everywhere, in the doorways, blocking the sunlight, flattening the plants in the garden, taking up all the room on the coffee table. No more room to rest anymore. Brown cardboard, brown packing tape, brown packages. Dull brown, not chestnut or cinnamon or brunette. Boxes. Too many boxes.

Everything is gone. The door is repainted, the chimney taken down, the lion knocker replaced with a horrible gaudy replica of what used to be. Carpet ripped up, replaced with unforgiving floorboards and cold tiles. The creak of the stairs fixed. Windows are kept closed, now. Instead, a skylight, beaming horrible blinding rays of light instead of the gentle glow of the setting sun in shades of aqua and lilac.

Curtains are ripped down; plastic beige blinds are installed instead. In the mornings, they are open, in the evenings, they are closed. Those are the rules. No midnight picnics, with moonlight streaming through, illuminating the room.

Garden plants squashed, replaced, uncared for. No one goes back there anymore. The plants seem lonely.
Too late, too late, too late. We can only mourn what used to be...

And hope for it to come again.

That one day there may be light and laughter in this house once more.

Collage uses photos by Dylan Freedom (door knocker), Jordan Loaiza (house) and Maria Lysenko (light bursts) from Unsplash.