My house has a red door. Not sure why I chose red, except that I like red. Nobody else around here does, it seems. Across the street, their front door is white. Next door’s is white. The other side is grey. Next to them is grey. There’s a blue one up the street. And a green one up past them. If my mum weren’t dead, she’d claim that the shame of a red door would kill her… “You’re killing me … only whores and whorehouses have red doors,” she’d say, and I’d waste my time pointing out that for centuries and centuries and centuries a red door … (and what do you call it when there’s a whole bunch of centuries – my dad would’ve known the word, but he’s also dead) … was a welcome sign to strangers, not that I want strangers thinking they can park themselves on my sofa just because they think my red door is an invitation. And by the way, my garage door is red, too.
The wind has paused … calmed.
It hangs in the tree branches.
A moment of peace.
A Haibun written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday, including your least favourite word (which is included in the paragraph, but I’ll not point it out, just for the fun of it), tagged #SoSC and shared with #APoemADay on Twitter. Image is from Unsplash CC:00 ©Misky 2021
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