THE HINGE

THE HINGE

I was the talk of the town. The newest thing around, made of the finest, shiniest metal. I have a pin that stabs through my heart and holds my two halves together. I have held a fine wood door and not made a squeak about the torture inflicted upon me. Time and neglect tarnished me and remodeling banished me to the upper regions of the house. The master’s wife put me on their bedroom door and filled my fine decorative line with white paint. The wooden door received the same treatment. I missed the coming and going of people. Several children later and almost as many coats of paint, I’m wrenched from my family and put on the shed door in back of the house. They nail me in place and chip my paint and roughen my texture with a hammer. I miss the faces of the family. The eaves of the shed protect me from rain and snow, but not the thief that broke down the door and broke part of my half. I have a pin that stabs through my heart and holds my two halves together. I was the talk of the town. The newest thing around.