Life behind the Door
Denver Ejem Torres

When I was a kid, our family lived in a shanty that had a door exactly like the pigpen’s door. The door’s design looked like the door of father’s hen house as well. The difference only was its dimensions. It has an alternate of wood and space and two braces on both ends. And I hated that door for it stole my blanket. Mother said that my blanket has to be used to cover the door as its design made us so accessible. In that case, she said that passers-by would not be able to see us.

And the door that stole my blanket became my friend later on when I had to hide behind it when the kids in the neighborhood bullied me. It became my surrogate Big Brother (he died before he was able to cry his first uha) and defended me from the naughty kids who want to take away the marbles that mother gave me as her gift. She said it was my balato. She would give me marbles when she went home the winner from whole day of playing cards at Lolit’s place that was three houses away from ours. It comforted me as well when my parents were in skirmish. I was assured when I hid behind it. I felt a certain peace when I am behind the door, away from the sight of everyone including my parents’.

Even the door was ugly, ordinary and mute I knew it wanted to say hi, and to befriend me. We had become friends; I wrote in his hard body using my crayons, I sat in front of it while watching my neighbors do their life. I even ate behind the door. I felt happy with the door and we were instant bosom buddies. Although it did not say a word and shared stories the way I did, still I told him my stories by writing them in its body. I loved that door as I loved my marbles. I missed that door as I missed the girl who smiled at me whenever she passed by our house. I missed the door of our house in the slum area where I once lived.

There were many changes since we left except that I still cannot walk.