The house I grew up in is big, and sits at the end of a street that opens up to a prairie. From all directions, the gray siding of the house blends into storm clouds in winter, spring and summer, its green shudders sometimes the only indication the house still stands. I remember being a kid, shooting hoops in the driveway, or chasing friends around the house in a game of tag or kick the can. I remember waking early in the morning as an adult, home only for a holiday, walking down to the kitchen, and sitting at the table with a cup of coffee as the sun bathed the room in its warmth. I remember setting the dinning room table for family dinners, graduating from silverware to plates to glasses to doing it all myself.
What I remember most though, now that my parents have downsized, is the yellow door.
My mother walked around the neighborhood a few times, checking the color of every front door. There were green doors, and many red doors. No one, though, had a yellow door. She painted the front door the same yellow as the Adirondack chair on the cover of an LL Bean catalog.
At first blush, it’s weird. Before pulling into the driveway, the yellow door pops out as if announcing itself, warmly. I can’t remember what color it was before, but I remember it was hard not to smile at the yellow door. It was hard not to think of sunshine and warmth, even on the darkest of days.
I wonder now if the new family that inhabits my childhood home will smile when they see the yellow door, or if they will paint over it.