Door B

Dried leaves shuffled in my wake as I traversed a path leading to the front door. The air was brittle and a faint smell of wood smoke lingered. Evening loomed and only a few strands of sunlight escaped an aquiline cloud as it towed November’s gray. Before I could finish turning the knob, the door inched open. I was met with a narrow staircase ascending to a small plateau, followed by another three steps. I shifted my duffle to avoid scattering the dried husks of a few entrapped hornets strewn among the paint chips on the sill of an old window. At the top there were two marked doors, one with the letter A, and the other B.

I slid my key into door B, surprised that the lock disengaged counterclockwise, before stepping into my new address.

The door gave way to a hall of average size, with an empty room at one end. To my right, a single step led down to the rest of my new space. It was unfurnished, save for a few basic appliances. The two larger rooms had ceilings that were angled, not unlike an attic. The far room had a wall-mounted propane heater, its pilot turned low and quietly smoldering behind a byzantine grill. The windows, one on each side of each room, were small and choked the setting sun. I closed the door and sat on the step.

 Hypnotized by the refrigerator’s hum, I sat silently for what must have been thirty minutes, pondering a visage marked by the memoirs of previous residents. There was grace in emptiness occupied by shadows. I scanned the room, an invisible guestbook to a hundred year -old house.  Each convention-defying square foot was home to another’s experience and virgin to my own. By the time I stood it was nearly dark, but my eyes had adjusted.

I walked into the room at the end of the hallway, adjacent to the main door and threw down the bag containing a few of my belongings. This would be my bedroom. The windows were larger and centered in broad wood trim and the aged plaster walls wore a fresh coat of paint. The room was empty but a few nails remained. It was nearly square, but there was a recess on the far wall deep enough to place a desk. The house’s age yielded to a draft that seemed stronger in this room but brought with it freshness native to a New England winter. There was purity to the room that forbade electronic entertainment.

I’d not yet begun to unpack, and many of my belongings were in my car or at my parent’s house. I had decided to spend my first night in the apartment devoid of all things that defined me, and experience my new home in its bluest essence. Just before sleep, I remembered to call my mom. She wanted to know what I thought of the place.