Random Things I Write

The Door

My destination is a door. The wooden door in the stone wall just visible to me, above the horizon. The wall stretched far above me, into the sky.

I do not want to open that door; I don't know what is on the other side.

I'm being silly, I know that. I also know what is on the other side of the door. I'm just reluctant to open the door, this place is a sanctuary, or at least it was the last time I had been here.

But that was the problem, who knows what it looks like now.

That thought was like being drenched in cold water on a blistering summer's day: shocking and sharp but not unwelcome.

As I walk memories float into my mind. Memories with a woman, bright silver eyes sparking with joy. She had pure white hair like freshly fallen snow that fell around her in curls that reached her waist.

We were in a garden that glowed in the darkness. Ace of hearts redbud trees towered above us, moonlight dripping off the pink petals making them appear almost purple. At the foot of all the trees lay brilliant blue peonies, sparkly-winged fae weaved amongst those bushes.

In the center of the garden there was a pond with crystal clear water, reflecting the stars and full moon. At the edge of the water, lay dazzling hydrangea bushes, glittering pixies dances among the purple petals.

Right next to the bench where the woman was sat, rested a rose bush. Buds as white as her hair, shone in the moon's light that reflected of the pond. It was the only rose bush in the whole garden.

I am pulled out of my thoughts by the door in front of me. I reach for the key to the door, that hangs around my neck, but I pause. I still need a little more time to prepare myself in order to open the door.