Red door

She knew, if this were a door to anywhere, that she would open it.  But only if she could take everything she has with her too -- the important stuff: the security of a job (not necessarily the job she has), the comfort and assurance of friendship (even if it meant leaving these friends behind), the possibility for lifelong love, the vulnerability needed for growth, a guarantee of neighbors who would tend to her (even if they would not be the neighbors she has now), and the knowing that comes from simply being alive on the planet for half a century.  It was not the actual reality of her life she needed to be sure of, it was the layer of comfort underneath the people and places that surrounded her now.  She has stood in front of that door many times.  Even has come close enough to touch the smooth panels of the door frame and the knob, heated by sunlight, chilled by the air.  She has come face to face with that door.  Raised her fist to knock, wondering if that were the key: an invitation spoken by someone who has crossed through.  She knows exactly what the hearth of that door feels like under her feet.  The warbled stone.  The slight tilt of the rock away from the threshold. But she cannot quite get her hand to touch the door, knowing that once she does, she will feel the heat of the fire on the other side, and it will excite and terrify her so much that the dream of the door will disappear forever. She has to be ready.  She has to be ready to touch the door before she will ever lay a ready hand upon it.  Right now, her hands are in her pockets, her chewed nails fisted into balls. They clench and unclench, as if practicing.  One day, she knows, they will knock.