e Little River Review - Gorham High School!

Amy McCarty
Doors
Doors
As I walked through the dimly lit halls, I passed doorways and windows to the memories of
years past and almost forgotten.
A polished, sparkling glass window looking out to a bench in the courtyard, under a tall oak
tree. A bright sunny day, and a red-haired boy I’d never seen before. He had looked up from his
books in surprise when I sat down next to him.
�e door to our common room, the wood stained and worn so� from the oil of many hands
opening and closing it through the years. Peeking through it in the early hours of the morning one
would have seen that red-haired boy and a blonde-haired girl sitting closely by the embers of a
�replace.
A wide door painted red, with a Christmas wreath hanging on a hook. As I slowly turned
the knob, I breathed in the smell of pine and mint. At the far corner of the room, the girl stood
in solitude, nibbling at a piece of pie. �e boy walked up to her bravely, staring above her head at
what hung there, and kissed her on the lips.
A door painted by many hands in di�erent colors, ideas, and techniques. Inside, some
people were lively and sociable, others were reserved and quiet. �e boy turned away from his
friends and dipped his paintbrush in a dish of orange tempera. It splashed onto the girl’s painting,
right beside him. He gave her an apologetic look and she giggled, taking her brush and splattering
green paint onto his canvas.
A heavy metal door that clanked loudly every time it was closed. A carelessly thrown ball,
a shout. �e boy stormed out from the gym, holding his blood-stained hand to his nose. At the
sound of the door slamming behind him, the girl winced, looking at the ground. Anger, shame.
�e looming, dark ebony door to a classroom, with a tarnished silver knob. �e red-haired
boy putting his hand on a brown-haired girl’s leg, and the blonde-haired girl watching from the
shadows of the stairs. �e girl throwing a glass at the boy’s head. Shouts, tears.
A creaky, narrow gray door. I twirled the lock carefully. It unlatched. I was surprised that
a�er all those years they had not changed the combination. I opened the locker gently. I scanned
the empty space, looking for some trace of my teen years. My eyes stopped abruptly at unfamiliar
markings on the inside of the door. “I’m sorry” was etched clearly into the fading gray paint. I
didn’t go back there looking for redemption, but somehow I found it anyway.
~ 26 ~