The Back Door

It had a sound and a weight to it which was unique. It would creak when you opened it, and slap when it closed. Not the front door, not an interior door; it was a screen door. The back porch was built for utility – baskets of wash ready to be hung on the line, a shelf with a tool box, some paint, and stuff to shine your shoes. The back door would creak, and out we would go. Everything about that small, intimate space no longer exists. With air-conditioning, the idea of a screen door doesn’t make sense. Security – never thought about it then. The people -us, traipsing out the back door, wearing all manner of anachronisms - hats, gloves, ankle socks, handkerchiefs, mantillas. Off to Mass with the roast in the oven.

Coming back again through the screen door, the savory smell of meat greeting us in the back yard. Creak. Slap. We’re home.