Story of a Door

by Mohammed Al-Rotayyan
Translated from the Arabic by Essam M. Al-Jassim

                                          
I don’t remember the past in any particular way. I don’t have a ‎family tree which outlines my lineage, either. I don’t know from ‎which tree I came. I barely remember the scent of the lumberjack’s ‎fingers, who worked outlining my final lineaments. I thought I ‎would be a chair, a cupboard, a table or a window, but I never ‎thought I would be a door.‎

My good fortune made me the main door of this small rural ‎home.  At the beginning, I looked at its dwellers suspiciously. The ‎little girl’s feet, Sara, scared me because I know she often grabs my ‎latch violently, and makes my limbs jerk when shutting. Only the ‎lady of the house reproaches Sara’s rude behavior, while the father ‎keeps laughing out loud about the pampered girl’s impish act.‎

‎I feel that there is a sort of relationship beginning to sprout ‎between me and the lady. Her touch seemed different. I feel warm ‎and safe when she opens and shuts me. She puts some of her soft ‎touches upon me from the inside, like hanging small artistic murals, ‎and from the outside, she festoons me with some flowers she picks ‎from the small garden. I always convinced myself that she puts ‎these flowers up for me, not for the guests! How I hate boring ‎guests and their stupid knocks. But the lady’s visitors are dear to ‎my heart, even if their knocks are, sometimes, violent.‎

Years pass by and I felt more attached to this family. I witnessed ‎the lady gets older, and Sara sloughs her childish fashion and turns ‎into a pretty young girl.‎

‎But, on a sad and somber day, death snatched the master. Then, ‎Sara left to pursue her college studies in a distant city. We stayed ‎alone; me and the lady.‎

‎I observed how gradually her strength was weakening, and her ‎body losing vigor before me. I longed impatiently for her touch ‎opening me in the morning, though. As if this touch was a gesture ‎of saying good morning to me. Lately, she used to have her coffee ‎nearby me. She would draw a wooden chair and sit on the porch. ‎How I envied the chair, and wished I had been made a chair instead ‎of a door. I believe she thinks of Sara and her late husband. ‎Although I get left ajar, I keep looking at her.‎

‎On winter nights, she sits in the living room reading a book. I’m ‎excited to be near her. Despite the blizzard, rain and cold air from ‎the outside hitting me, I sensed warmth and happiness from ‎the ‎inside.‎

During those years, I do not exactly remember, because my ‎memory stopped around ‎‏that time, some strangers kept ‎‏knocking ‎on me rather ‎‏‎strenuously. After a series of strong blows, they ‎opened me wide apart. There were ‎murmurs and confused and ‎intangible arguments. They entered the rooms of the house and ‎began ‎searching.  A few moments passed and they left the house ‎carrying the lady on a stretcher.  ‎She left without looking or ‎touching me, or even saying goodbye.‎

Years passed and no one knocked on me or put flowers on my ‎chest. ‎I got older and my sound has become disturbingly annoying ‎because of the squeaks it gives ‎off.  My joints weakened, and mites ‎and mold wore out my limbs. Erosion crept up on me due ‎to the ‎loneliness and the seasonal changes.‎

On a cold spring morning, a lady accompanied by a young man, ‎who is taller and younger than ‎she’s, turned up.  I can recognize her ‎features. They approached. I know the rhythm of these ‎paces. Once ‎she touched me, I crumbled to the ground. The things around me ‎thought that I had tumbled because of my rusted hinges, or ‎because of that my joints have ‎been gnawed. No. It’s because I ‎perceived the soft touch. It’s the same lady’s touch. Why ‎not hers? ‎She was her daughter, Sara, who had come along with her young ‎son to visit the forsaken ‎family-home.‎

‎After a brief round throughout the house, a strong cold wind ‎drafted. The young man ‎gathered some strewn-about papers and ‎threw them in the old fireplace to get some heat. He ‎looked ‎around, and then headed for me. He started shattering my limbs ‎and casting them into ‎the fire.‎