Member-only story
FICTION
Doors
Jacob Blane gives me a handsaw and tells me it will help fill out the muscles in my arms.
I saw a piece of board in two. Then I’m told to saw those pieces in two and to keep going until I can’t divide the pieces anymore.
Jacob Blane builds doors. He looks like a young Santa Clause. His brown beard hangs past his neck. His tiny eyes carefully take in everything in his shop.
The last time I stopped to look at a door was the one that led inside my high school. I had been invited to give a speech, something to uplift the students, show them that yes, you can make something of yourselves because, see, I did.
That was a long time ago. Everything I told those students has become a lie.
Jacob shares my belief that doors are magical and frightening. I try to tell him a vagina is a door, and he asks me not to say that word. I see a cross above the garage, and I know what kind of door Jacob is.
We are all doors. Some of us are small, some big. Some red, some plain. Some wood, some metal. Very few of us keep our doors unlocked. All of us keep them closed for most of our lives. Those who keep them open for just anyone to walk through scare me with their confidence, their vulnerability.
