we are the foreigners when visiting foreign lands
The autumn storm brought warm rain, and sheets of soundless lightning. For three days I keep to cover, watching the trees strip bare. Heavy leaves thrown, a mat emerging, until I can see no green of lawn beyond my screen door.
With sky retreating to a less fierce grey, I make my way to take photos for friends. Raking a bit so they’d feel better. They live on a boat and love the water, but not so much the kelp clog of recent days, however. Then I felt myself slip on the leaf mat.
That much I remember. Pause refusing to let thoughts gather. And there it is, flat on the lawn. My rake scratching an alien form. A latch handle from one end to the other. No wind to blow anything over and no close neighbour to lose a door.
The gateway is hinged, although I thought myself less so. Pulling free the rusty pin, I heft it open. I peer under, popping my head into a painted-on attic door. This barrier, thin as paper, as firm as my slip on reality.
I see a field and maybe a farmer. Mostly the clothes are familiar, but the figure stands on hind legs. I pull back to let the door drop, wondering how to secure the pin. Wondering whether anyone else in town looked in their lawn, beyond a door.
