Through the Door

I came in through the door when I was born. Bundled in a lovely, soft lily-white blanket, my Mom carried me in her arms. Her arms are as soft as the blankets that covered my whole, tiny body. Only my small pinky face was not covered with the blanket. My Mom did not want to suffocate me, of course. My eyes were closed at the time I was brought back from the hospital. My dad did give me a little hug and a kiss on the forehead when he picked up my Mom and I from the hospital. He sort of got scared to hold me because I was too little for his strong, healthy arms. He did not want to crush me. I sort of gave a bit of a hiccup when Dad said he was scared to hold me. I guessed I reallly did not mind because I truly did not want to be crushed. Heavens, that would be just terrible. Anyhow, as I was saying, I came through the front door.

The front door was an old one at the time of my first entrance. Its paint was sort of losing its color of soft purple. It was not that bad really because my Dad was, in fact, in the middle of working his stamina to paint the door. He had all the new paint prepared in the garage, including anything that he needed to make the door look fresh and colorful again. Then, of course, I started all the trouble; that is, I began to make my Mom hurt and cry out. Then, there was the rush to take Mom to the hospital so that Mom would not feel really hurt and bad. You know, it was the time I wanted out; out of the dark in my Mom's tummy. Do you realize it was really quite a long time before I realized I was living in the dark? I mean, would you want to start life in the dark? Of course, I had no choice but start life in the dark; it was how life starts, really.

I began to grow up, of course, and learned to use the door whenever I wanted to go out. I loved to feel the soft, green grass on the front lawn. So my Mom always took me out through the door practically every day, place me in a pram, so that I could stay under the tree and feel the sunshine on my face. I loved those very young years I spent in the front garden. Then, in the soft afternoon, when the sun toned down its heat, my Mom did move my pram to the backyard where I could take a nap after feeding. Oh, and my Dad did finally paint the front door and became its old self of soft lavender again. It was the color I loved.

There was a little story about me in the backyard. I was sleeping pretty in the shaded backyard when my big brother decided to play a joke on me. He decided to tip my pram to one side, and see how I would react to be tipped off on to the grass. I gave a bit of shock, though, because I sort of went along on to the grass without making a sound. The grass was soft, so I kept on sleeping. I guessed that sort of shocked my brother. No matter, however, because when Mom thought it was time for me to get out of the sun, she gave a terrible scream as she realized I had fallen off the pram. That was an almost tragedy for my brother. I guessed Mom thought the pram just tipped me off the grass because of a strong wind in the backyard. Nevertheless, Mom did ask my brother what he was doing in the backyard. Guess what my brother said. He said he wanted to guard me so no one would want to steal me. Was that clever of my brother, though?

Then, of course, I reached the school age years, and began going through the front door often. I loved the front door because of its color, softness in lavender. I realized from childhood I loved the color lavender/purple. It became my favorite color because the very first dress I wore to Church was purple. I loved the color then, and promised to myself I shall have purple/lavender each time I get something new.

The front door, that was what I started to write about. Well, to continue. I finished grade school, went on to high school and then onward on to the university. At the university, I had a bit of trouble with the history professor the first year. She was a beauty. Her hair was purplish and gold. She had large, brown eyes, reddish lips that smile when she speaks, her cheeks were pale lavender. Her voice lillted like a soft musical note. Behind all these beautiful attributes, though, she was hard on her female students, especially me. She was always for the guys in class.

I was terribly sad to admit that I hated her. However, I decided because of her attitude I was going to study hard, pass every test or exam she produced. I knew if I kept up with every single paper she made the class write, that I was not going to give in to my hatred of her. Well, for goodness' sake, I did make it; got a lot of passing grades; and I laughed good and hard when I passed her class!

Although I had few difficulties in other subjects, I managed to pass and obtained my degree in journalism. I took extra classes in writing fiction, essays, nonfiction. I began to love writing essays. As a result, I researched and produced essays that were published. There was one time when I stood in front of the front door, utterly deep in thought. Through the years, the door became a passage in time, through which a number of my family went through when they passed away. I thought one day it was going to be my turn to pass though, on the day I die. As I stood for a while contemplating, I decided to call the door, Death. I thought it was a proper name for the door because of the many lives that went through it during all my years of growing up. To think that I, one day, was going to pass through Death...

The idea of the front door as Death was a thought that came to me as I grew up. I believed it was inevitable that I think of it as Death because of the many members of my family who disappeared during the Second World War. Living in the city, I grew up not knowing many of those I never met at all. Apparently, I have cousins I have never met according to my Mom. My Dad also reminded me he had two sissters I have not met at all, and they had their own childrsen. They lived in the northern part of the country, which I did not have a chance to visit before the war. And then, of course, after the war there were other things that prevented me from looking up my aunties and their children.

I grew up during the Second World War. My Mom and I and my brother were swept away in a matter of months and years, living under the terrible years of foreign occupation. The foreigners were not only allowed to enter my country; they were welcomed by the government. Apparently, declaring the country an "Open City" meant the foreigners were allowed to march in without a single shot or a bomb that would have destroyed the city, its buildings, its villages pillaged or the killings were brought down to a mere few. At that time, I hated the government for their short sightedness and for their cowardice. It did not take the foreigners to create havoc not only in the cities but also in the provinces, where villages were practically governed with cruelty, killings of young men who were enlisting to become soldiers. There were also great fear because women and children became subjects of imprisonment and/or were killed because the occupiers were simply cruel, demanded and grabbed food from the people, who were subjected to imprisonment or shot to death if they cannot provide food. It was a four-year war that brought our own people into hunger, sickness, imprisonment, and shot right where they were.







(to be continued)