Walking up to the doors of my dormitory on move-in day. Not knowing what would happen when I actually had to open them and walk inside.
The inner conflict
At those same doors, I watched my parents leave. Standing there worrying. I didn’t allow myself to be sad that they were leaving but I didn’t want to see them go.
Late nights talking with friends at the doorway of my room. Standing for hours just talking and laughing. Content to be in each other’s presence.
The last time I saw my grandfather, I placed my hand on his head and told him I loved him. I said those little words that he would hear but would not remember. I walked through the doors of the nursing home knowing I would never see him again.
Not wanting to go in and face my grief, I leaned on the doorframe of the viewing room. I couldn’t bring myself to do what over five hundred people came for. I watched the masses pass, thankful that they were taking my place in front of the casket.
Standing at my own door again. Head pressed against the hard wood. The surface hides me from the rest of the world in the space that is only mine. It is the only thing that can hide what I am truly feeling.