"My door is always open"- a poem

Vilhelm Hammershoi

❤: I won't say much, but this story is inspired by a true accident. Like my memory of it, it's dysharmonic and overabundant.

 

Down in New York's most forgotten suburbs, mom was a pot left on the stovetop with the gas on; Brad was a ventilator. He blew on the flame so much that it cut off, as the gas continued to fill the room. 

Two different distractions, two fatal casualties. Both went away. Anyone could smell the gas from a distance.

But I was doors and windows, closed shut into the suffocating ambience. We were the only ones inside.

When we were saved, the police insisted on the danger. A little girl was trapped inside. Nobody.

 You cried at the thought of near-death. All your dreams in a parade straining away from you. You can't follow them because you don't have wheels. A sofa. An armchair. 

You've always wanted to visit Europe, but now it looks too many accidents away from you. I wanted the depths of Africa, but how could I deal with the fire? 

We could have gone together, but furniture, we know, is the most difficult to transport. How can wood, glass and cloth experience the world when they are so flammable? What feeling do construction materials have?

We graduated, found a job. I work at an office. You'd have been a great artist one day if your hands weren't cotton and tapestry.

And now we're both the room we were abandoned in. Covered in bedsheets and old tents found occasionally by the crime department. The kitchen is unfurnished; the electricity is cut out. Nobody had the nerve to move a thing. Movement is dangerous.

We still don't know who stole all the valuables. Someone left the armchair in the room without daylight. A little rascal broke some windows and painted violent words on the door.

In all of this, I am sorry, sister. I know I went away and shut the past behind me, but for you, my door is always open.