Hard Wall

Do you remember?

There used to be a door here
Its frame is etched in my brain
My hands retain the memory of opening it
Over and over again

There used to be a door here
A way of letting light in
A way of letting myself out
The air on the other side smelled of summer cherries

With eyes closed
My hands search for the slightest crack
For signs that would reveal the hidden frame
But there are none

In my dreams
I can still find that door
I smell the summer cherries
But I cannot see

What’s on the other side anymore.

My name is Florin. On my blog, Riddle Me This, I write about the power of stories to move people and, sometimes, mountains. I write about the stories we tell ourselves and the stories we tell one another.

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