The locked door seemed to be daring me. It was at the top of the stairs, fashioned of old wood slats painted white and peeling in several places. There were spaces between the slats and the smell of cedar chips drifted out but all I could see was darkness and mystery. There was no other locked door in the house and between my imagination and my curiosity, I was fascinated by the possibilitities of what it might contain. When I asked my grandmother for the key, she chased me off with a frown and a brisk Curiosity killed the cat, go play outside. I did as I was told but the locked door stayed with me, its forbidden contents preying on my mind.
I was not an especially mindful child but I was a patient one. When Nana made one of her weekly trips to the mainland, I made myself scarce until she had left, then knowing I had several hours to myself, I raided the tool chest and screwdriver in hand, I climbed the stairs. The old door stood passively on its old hinges, not much of a challenge, I thought but my heart began to pound in my chest anyway and I hesitated just long enough to lose my nerve. Like a frightened rabbit, I scurried away, replaced the screwdriver and ran outside into the sunshine. All that summer the mystery of the locked door gnawed at me, curiosity and fear of getting caught fighting in my head like two old soldiers, equally matched, equally stubborn, neither willing to give up
.
My daddy came for a week in late August. We went fishing off the breakwater, played scrabble at night on the sunporch, took walks around the Old Road and picked blackberries and strawberries out of the fields. Before he was to leave, I summoned the nerve to ask him about the locked door and he laughed, saying there was likely nothing behind it but linens and blankets and old quilts. When I persisted, he cheerfully gave in, and together we climbed the stairs. He produced an old fashioned key and opened the door with a dramatic flair - the old slats shuddered and creaked on their hinges and I ducked behind him in sudden terror. Still laughing, he touseled my hair and took my hand, Whatever did you think you'd find? he asked, the laughter turning to an understanding smile.
It was just a shadowy old closet, filled with linens and blankets and old quilts, piles of dusty books, an unstrung tennis racket, discarded hatboxes. A cedar chest in one corner held my great grandmother's wedding dress still folded between layers of thin paper, yellowed but intact. There were boxes of faded photographs, old newspapers,
an empty jewelry case, a row of tiny crystal perfume bottles, a cracked mirror and an old wash basin and pitcher on a three legged stand. It's a memory closet, my daddy told me, this is where your grandmother keeps the things she can't bear to throw away. He shut the door and relocked it, then knelt in front of me. Sometimes, the mystery is better left unsolved.
I was not an especially mindful child but I was a patient one. When Nana made one of her weekly trips to the mainland, I made myself scarce until she had left, then knowing I had several hours to myself, I raided the tool chest and screwdriver in hand, I climbed the stairs. The old door stood passively on its old hinges, not much of a challenge, I thought but my heart began to pound in my chest anyway and I hesitated just long enough to lose my nerve. Like a frightened rabbit, I scurried away, replaced the screwdriver and ran outside into the sunshine. All that summer the mystery of the locked door gnawed at me, curiosity and fear of getting caught fighting in my head like two old soldiers, equally matched, equally stubborn, neither willing to give up
.
My daddy came for a week in late August. We went fishing off the breakwater, played scrabble at night on the sunporch, took walks around the Old Road and picked blackberries and strawberries out of the fields. Before he was to leave, I summoned the nerve to ask him about the locked door and he laughed, saying there was likely nothing behind it but linens and blankets and old quilts. When I persisted, he cheerfully gave in, and together we climbed the stairs. He produced an old fashioned key and opened the door with a dramatic flair - the old slats shuddered and creaked on their hinges and I ducked behind him in sudden terror. Still laughing, he touseled my hair and took my hand, Whatever did you think you'd find? he asked, the laughter turning to an understanding smile.
It was just a shadowy old closet, filled with linens and blankets and old quilts, piles of dusty books, an unstrung tennis racket, discarded hatboxes. A cedar chest in one corner held my great grandmother's wedding dress still folded between layers of thin paper, yellowed but intact. There were boxes of faded photographs, old newspapers,
an empty jewelry case, a row of tiny crystal perfume bottles, a cracked mirror and an old wash basin and pitcher on a three legged stand. It's a memory closet, my daddy told me, this is where your grandmother keeps the things she can't bear to throw away. He shut the door and relocked it, then knelt in front of me. Sometimes, the mystery is better left unsolved.
