Is that you under the door?
The door—surrounded by walls of different nationalities and strewn with debris in its atrium from what I’m sure must have been an apple picking gone sour.
Are you what is left?
It looks like too much has happened; your world is not the same, and from the way it was left, I’m not sure I want to see what it would have looked like before.
I understand why you hide, and only peer out from under the door.
I’m seeing you from under a door, myself.
There is a pair of apples left in the space between us. Who will dart out and take them first, I wonder? Will we share? Will we tie? Or will we fight over the red or the green? Is it closer to you or me? I’m still uncertain.
I’m doubtful either of us will make it past our doors to find out. Not because they are locked, not because they have splinters on the handles and loud squeaks waiting in the hinges. But because it was an apple tree’s wood that made our doors, first. And a door is built in its frame.
Is that me under the door?
Providence, Rhode Island, United States of America