You said, "nothing's ever certain." Then you turned around and walked out the door.

It still smelled slightly, week old paint just barely hanging on. One can't believe emotional tension affects inanimate objects until you've seen paint try to crawl off a door.

You didn't think the yellow that I chose was bright enough. You said it didn't do the sparkle in my eyes justice. I was just trying to match the tea towels.

I loved that door, or maybe I just thought I did. The way it swung back and forth so freely as if it were longing for a playground with swings; wishing for vertical movement, but being contented with horizontal. At first I wished I could move as freely as that door, then I became conscious of the hinges that held it in place.

Once it was a door of warm greetings; hurried entrances with exciting news. Now it is something to storm though.

Some days I give it a good push after a storm. I know it really doesn't do anything but it gives the illusion of clearing the air.

So last week I decided to paint it yellow. To match the towels. To scare away the storm. A little thank you from me to the door.

I don't believe one becomes concious of the symbolism of everyday items by chance. It's a gift, from the item to the viewer. The little irregularity in the finish of the table that caused you to bend down for a closer look at the exact moment the man across the street was peiring into the window with his circa 1930's binoclars, causing you to get down just low enough to see him from under the blinds you keep partly drawn out of fear of this very thing.

On the morning of the day I discovered the smudge on the table and consequently the nosey neighbor, I had been strangely self concious about my legs. The wood was whispering little truths and my skin had prickled in response.

So the kitchen door sent me similar vibes last week. Not prickly skin vibes, but 'paint me' vibes. So I did. Looking back it's hard to believe I thought yellow paint could fix things. There are a plethora of circumstances where yellow will indeed fix things but this isn't one of them.

Instead I sit here listening to sad songs that remind me of you, wishing that you'd say "it's not bright enough, it doesn't do the sparkle in your eyes justice."

You looked at me before you left. I said, "you know I love you."

You said, "nothing's ever certain." Then you turned around and walked out the door.