Our heartfelt thanks to Teresa Elliott
who contributes the following.
If ever a winter was long, it's this one.
If ever there were a time to dream, it's now.
Consider this the portal.
Well, here's my pink door. It came to me in a dream. It was actually the finishing touch on my courtyard, which came to me in a daydream (never confuse the two), and was made possible when I sold my husband's truck. It's a nice courtyard, peaceful. There's a fountain—that's de rigeur, ain't it?—and sometimes I catch Homer, a dog, drinking from it, standing like a man with his feet on the rim; other times I see grackles bathing in the upper basin; sometimes I see both of these things at once. Those are very sweet days.
Also in the courtyard are melon-colored hibiscus and pink bougainvilla, there's a gardenia bush that sends off blooms faster than I can place them behind my ears. There are several kinds of bamboo ringing the perimeter, the most dramatic kind being Timer, which grows so mightily I expect it to come for me in my sleep. And I bet there are worse ways to go. In fact, I know there are.
Also in the courtyard, behind the pink door, is a big ship, made by a potter, my husband's friend, intended to house my darling's ashes, except I can't get them out of the more official brass container. I took the brass container with me to Key West not long after I received it. We stayed in a grand old plantation home surrounding...a courtyard...wait a minute, is that where this whole thing started? For sure we did a lot of daydreaming that trip, so maybe...
The dream in which my pink door starred was the first time I'd woken up laughing in just the longest time and I guess that's why I needed to bring it to life. It quite broke the spirit of my handyman—he hasn't returned a call since—but I'm told it amuses passersby. My across-the-street neighbor says they take pictures of it. I wonder what they think. I hope they think it's "witty." I hope they don't think I'm trying to keep the bad stuff out, 'cause you can't. I'm trying to keep the good stuff in. And it's working out okay. Not perfect, but okay.
Teresa Elliott is a writer living in Austin, Texas.