The Door

The door stands open in front of you.

You peek into its gaping maw, one hand firmly clutching the blanket gifted by some great-aunt or cousin - one whose universe won’t touch yours again until the day your best friend straightens your tie. Beyond the shimmering threshold you glimpse a brand new bicycle. You glimpse a massive pile of leaves in an enchanted forest. You glimpse the wellspring of imagination. You glimpse the essence. Before you can drop your ward, the familiar dragon emerges from its cave, and, with a roar that shatters the silence into a hundred jagged shards, he chars the door’s ornate frame with 200,000 years of hindsight.

You flee, feet stumbling over tattered fabric and themselves until you arrive at a closed door that is similarly singed. Those scorch marks that would normally give you pause don’t hold a candle to the dragon’s roar behind you, and you quickly push it open to be assailed by the pungent smells of stale beauty and wasted vigor. A dose of venom and salt later, you once again face the door. The essence still calls to you, offering blank coloring books and the rest of your puzzle. But the dragon knows best - it has to - so you curl under that broken promise and ignore the Siren’s call.

The door stands open in front of you.

You spare it a sweeping, disdainful glance, the comforting crackle of electricity dancing though your veins. The wood is ashen as ever but the dragon is gone - tamed down to the fey lizard it was meant to be. At times like these, you fancy you became the dragon. Now, past the radiant threshold, you glimpse a matching tux and evening gown. You glimpse a full 8-top at a cafe. You glimpse a sea of faces staring up at you. You glimpse the essence. But before you can tug at the thread of Antarctica, a coyote slinks from behind the door.

It lets out a sharp yowl, one that hardens the pack ice and licks you like a dragon’s flame. You pat his head, the coarse fur prickling like all the memories you wish a quarter-stick of dynamite could fix. The essence still beckons, promising a home-cooked meal and the warmth of a spotlight. But the coyote’s cry is a harsh reminder that not all men are destined to become wolves, and you succumb to the cavorting voltage.

The door stands open in front of you.

You eye it wearily, angrily. It kept pace with you as you drifted from one crumpled wrapper to the next, never offering anything but a room number on a napkin. The letter documenting your latest miscarriage slips from your hand like a single raindrop - and then there’s no holding back the torrent. You lurch forward, the burned grain grating against your calloused palms like a wailing siren as you throw the weight of a fault line against the wood. Just before it slams closed you glimpse an undisturbed shore line. You glimpse pillars and a rose garden. You glimpse a backwards-ticking clock. You glimpse the essence.

But now it’s gone - gone, gone, and You shouldn’t have done that; why would you do that! The raccoon’s screech reverberates off the dank, peeling walls. You can’t see it now, but you watched over time as the coyote wilted and its fur darkened. You saw the black rings claim its tail and eyes as the rings of iron and sulfur encircled you. You can’t see the raccoon, but it doesn’t matter now because it’s gone; the essence is gone and the essence was the only star in the sky that didn’t fall.

You grasp and wrench the brass knob to no avail, pounding your fists and screaming out 45 years of-

The door stands open in front of you.

You can barely raise your head to see it, but you heard its hinges finally give and you sense the essence returning for one last serenade. Through your silver locks and the blackened, perdurable frame you glimpse the entire universe. You glimpse the essence.

The door stands open in front of you. With the help of the grizzly bear, you find your feet for the first time in years. You walk through the door.