A Wish-Door

Constance Tupper

The door I am thinking of came to me in a dream. I call it my wish-door. It hides an unusual catalog of items but unlike Fibber McGee's closet, they do not come crashing out in a cacophony of sound orchestrated by an indispensible sound man.

Instead, I open my door and am confronted silently by every article I have ever lost, misplaced or broken. Piled in profusion are single socks of every color, left gloves, right gloves, of cotton, leather and wool. There are hats and sweaters and at least ten pairs of sunglasses, one I remember dropping over the side of a glass-bottomed boat in Aruba. Many things I have forgotten, but there are some I remember with joy. There is a beautiful pin, a cabochon topaz ringed with seed pearls, that slipped off my blouse on a crosstown bus in Manhattan thirty-eight years ago. I see with joy another brooch, a circle of moonstones which mysteriously disappeared at a basketball game along with the navy blue jacket to which it was pinned. I recognize the book about American patriots I won in a writing contest sponsored by Woman's Day. There is a cherished silver fountain pen, and an array of single earrings I greet as old friends. There is money; I couldn't begin to guess how much. And here are the broken shards of my life, starting with toys and dolls, a whole parade of them mashed, cracked, torn and oozing stuffing. The smashed bits of my household years: a whole set of breakfast dishes, innumerable glasses, and plates, chipped, cracked and crazed--all miraculously healed and ready for use.

Ah, but when I put my hand out to touch them, they melt like shadows under my fingers. I can open the door, I can look, but I can't grasp them again. The jewelry and money disappear, the dolls, dishes and glassware crumble to fragments and fade away. All I can do is close my wish-door softly and remember.

©2003 Constance Tupper