My father constructed a door  

in the middle of the living room. 

He painted the door red and the doorknob yellow.  

The frame he painted green.  

He said it joined those of us gone with those of us here, 

an entrance and exit between worlds. 

Late at night he would knock on the door,  

and our mother told us his knocks should remain unanswered.  

Long wooden planks, pressboard really,  

wood glue and nails, starlight  

and the grandfather clock ticking.  

My father would open the door  

like a forbidden book, shut it  

with the finality of a coffin.  

When he left us, we stayed up late,  

whispering, “Who’s there?” to his absence.  

On our side, wants.  

On his, desire.  

One day we carried the door out of the house  

and threw it into the river. 

The door became a bridge,  

then an island.  

The door became a raft when it drifted away.  

Our mother never spoke of it,  

never asked who was there. 

She simply refused to believe there was anything behind it.