The Heart’s Door

The door is closed.

I do not know if it is locked.

I am afraid to turn the knob.

I have forgotten

where I put the key.

It is a grand door,

beautiful, strong and solid.

Tenderly polished

with a handsome, wooden finish.

Worn, but grown noble with age.

Hanging gently on thick,

beaten hinges,

it is impenetrable,

resistant to the most grievous siege.

Yet, by design and intent,

swings easily open,

with just the slightest caress.

Upon inspection, it is scarred.

Gouged and splintered

by the sturdy weapons

of those denied entry.

The door’s finish is deeply stained.

Soaked with the tears and blood

caused by those brave enough

to pass through when it was open,

but who could not remain.

The visual reminder

of so many lost dreams.

I cannot be certain how

I left the contents behind the door.

Some were surely placed neatly,

and securely where they belonged.

For while I am unable to touch them,

they are called forth in vivid images,

Other objects are less clear,

memories, fading over time.

Lost visions I seek to recreate.

Reaching out to these scattered

contents of a closed room,

I feel the bitter pain

of their presence, telling me,

at least a few fragments remain.

So, closing the door is safe.

Protects the remaining

precious contents.

Allows me to live and work,

to survive each day.

To do that which is required,

expected.

I cannot say, when, or if,

the door will again allow passage.

I do not know what event,

or person,

will privilege me

with the courage to attempt

such a terrifying feat.

And so, I tend to my life.

I move forward, resolute

and outwardly strong.

Thankful for the many blessings,

surrounding my daily existence.

But, on certain days,

when I dare to imagine,

the possibilities of my life,

I cautiously place my hand

upon the door.

Silently longing to be united,

with the many belongings,

so gently sheltered,

on the other side.