Talking to My Boys about Girls: Doors

wyattdoor

If someone’s face appears to you before sleep and right when waking and then also between, in dreams.  If she suddenly appears at your window, and she’s stepping through grass or gravel or sand or water or mud—or whatever is your yard—to visit you.  Always come out your door.  And stand in front of it and lift your arm very high and wave.  Just keep waving.  The further off she is the better, and best if she’s still a speck.

Whatever you do, don’t hang around inside waiting for a knock.  Because when met with closed doors, some people become awfully like maimed birds.  They try to take off, they try to knock.  But their wings, their hands.  The words flutter and sputter sound so close, but only one holds any promise of moving forward.  And for this hand you’d have to use sputter.  Even if the girl finds the courage to ball a fist and swing it, it might halt suddenly, freezing six millimetres from the wood.  Which is plenty of  space for words and weather to slide in between and change several times.  The sky might resemble a completely different monster when she finally dips backwards, as though pushed, and gives her hand again to her pocket.

How can I say it but to say that when a girl stands at a closed door, she stands at all the doors that ever closed on her.  So throw it open early.  Then wave.  Hopefully you can wave just like the way you wave at me now, with your hand seemingly untethered to a wrist. How easily your wave bounces and flaps, oblivious to bones or barometric pressure.  You might be giving a Hello or you might be giving a Goodbye, but either way you’re standing in a spot completely free of locks or slams.  And I know it sounds crazy to say your wave has a sound, but I swear sometimes I can hear it.  Occasionally it seems to stream music out of it: some piece that conjures people so happily reunited that they can’t stop talking overtop of each other, like the 3rd movement of  Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 3.  Other times your wave is slower and quieter than that, and the words lob off it so faintly I might not know what I’m hearing, if it wasn’t always some similar variation of the same needed thing.  Something like: Doors are just boards.  And boards wear away to sawdust.   And here, let me stir up some wind with my hand.        

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