The Red Oak Door

Our ancestral house had a red oak door

towering tall against cold December

winds and June afternoon rains.

Sometimes it kept out wild stray cats

that appeared mysteriously

and left empty crates of packaged

milk half spilled on hoary kitchen rugs.

But mostly, it welcomed visitors,

neighbors and the unexpected passer-by.

Even when balmy evenings rolled into

savage rainy days that rattled our roofs,

there was the occasional ring of the doorbell

with a familiar face or an unsuspecting visitor

at our Bougainvillea draped front porch.

The children usually came in clusters

scuffing along flower bedded sidewalks.

The tallest one managed to reach the bell

after several high jump attempts, waking up 
the inmates out of cozy warm beds.

But with no signs of a potential playmate,

they went dashing to the open fields nearby.

On special occasions, the families visited

traveling long hours from uptown.

At the door, the men brushed imaginary

specs off ironed pants; the women tucked in 
unruffled hair behind ears while the bell 
reverberated and faint sound of footsteps 
were heard, they cleared throats

just in time to greet the host 
with beaming smiles.

There was the occasional visit

from the affable mailman

garbed in an oversized khaki kurta

and milky white pyjamas,

with a jhola strung around his angular shoulder,

carrying the neat stacks of crème wrinkled 
envelopes grabbed by our eager hands.

changing seasons wrapped hours into years

like little glittery holiday presents;

the big old colossal door now stood

a little rickety and timeworn

yet burnished and beautiful,

like our own  lives.     

*First published in Songbook Circa, November 2011.