Part 1: A Few Years, A Thousand Memories, and A Knock on the Door

A cold wind races against my face as I stand at the front door of my forever. It’s a wind that I have felt before but never quite like this. I fasten another button on the collar of my jacket and step out further into the frostbitten night. As I turn to face the reality of another snowy eternity of darkness, I can’t help but wonder how I got here. A decision here and a decision there and suddenly life swept me away to an unfamiliar existence. I never intended to end up here, yet here I stand.

The snow is now falling with the intensity of a well-purposed storm, intent on inflicting misery on anyone caught in its path. My hands wipe the wetness from the frosted glass and as I peer inside. I can see a dim light dancing in the hollow distance. I’ve never felt like an explorer, but this circumstance has pushed me past the realm of familiar and dropped me into an oblivion of exasperated uncertainty.

I often wonder if I could ever go back to the warm familiarness of yesterday. A place where things made sense and nothing seemed too burdensome. I was a kid with sunburned cheeks and dirty fingernails. I was curious about everything and confident of nothing. I had plans of grandeur and a raging fire within my soul. The world was open and my mind was free. That place isn’t too far; a few years, a thousand memories, and a knock on the door.

The snow is blinding now and my feet are soaked to the bone. I can’t stay out here much longer. I’ll not die in this place. I peer through the window again; it looks empty and cold. In the back room, the dim ember of light still struggles against the darkness. I decide to announce my presence to anyone who can hear.

“Hello!” No one answers.

Again I shout, “hello!”

Still no reply. A turn of the knob and the door creaks open with a rusty groan. It’s a small two room cabin. The interior smells like a damp campfire that was left to smolder in the rain. There is a small twin bed in the front room with a brown wool blanket tucked neatly into place.

In the far corner, I notice a stack of books next to an old leather recliner. The back room has a small kitchen with a camp stove, some open shelves and a few can-goods  scattered about the table. There is no sign of anyone here, yet I feel as though someone belongs here.

The cold, bitter wind makes itself at home as it pushes the front door open with a rush of energy. It frightens me in such a way that I fall into the stack of books that had been assembled with the neatness of a school librarian. The wind flutters through the open pages and I notice that the books are missing entire chapters. The pages hadn’t been ripped out but instead look as though they were purposely left out during the binding process.

As I stand to close the door, I am overtaken with a sense of loneliness and confinement. This place feels more like a prison than a home. I am exhausted but glad to be out of the cold. Now sitting on the edge of the bed, my mind races back to a time not too long ago when the world was open and my mind was free. That place isn’t too far; a few years, a thousand memories, and a knock on the door.

 

 

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Justin Skains

Hard-working husband, father, coach, and amateur ultra-marathoner who prides himself on results day-in and day-out...and oh yes, I love to write!

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