Yellow Doors
By Samantha Childs
I moved to a house in Dublin with a yellow door.
On a bus tour, I was told the city’s brightly painted doors
Began when Queen Victoria died.
England decreed that Dubliners paint their doors black in mourning.
They rebelled with color.
I laughed—
the life in people, the spirit of it.
And what of the notion that when life gives us hard things—any hard thing—
We don’t have to go along with the story?
We can paint our door bright yellow.
In the pub last week, a man talked about his sister, who is in a wheelchair with MS. She can’t feed herself.
He said he’ll do, “Here comes the airplane,” with her spoon,
At times intentionally missing her mouth.
“You’ve got to treat her like she’s normal,” he said.
And no one slagged.
And I watched him with open-hearted wonder.
Another way to say love.
And when he left for a cigarette,
Everyone else opened up—
About health struggles
In their families and in their own lives.
Could their family member have heard them when they were in a coma,
Their own personal struggles with epilepsy.
And the connection, and the vulnerability,
Felt like yellow paint.