Several years ago I wrote a poem—which I’ve since lost—about the doors in my house, all their openings and closings, their slammings, their lockings. Sometimes their replacements. And the way they look now, all open.
Other than the front door, my favorite door is the back door that opens from the back living room to the back porch. It has built-in blinds that can be opened or closed, pulled up or down. It’s one more way we let in the light. Every morning I open them up, and every evening I close them. I love the combination of a door with blinds.
Except for these other doors in the house, originals from the ’70s, which don’t have blinds, exactly, but slats. The doors open to closets, mostly. I don’t understand the point of the slats. Are the closets suffocating? Does the monster inside them enjoy a smidgen of light?
As I do with all my mysteries, I consulted Google. They’re called louver doors. Supposedly, they add charm.
Are you feeling charmed?
Charmed can mean, according to more handy-dandy Googling, polite pleasure, as in, “Pleased to meet you, charmed, I’m sure.” Or it can mean protected by magic, as in, “Hi, my house is haunted but in a good way.” Have these charming slats protected us? Possibly. By forces beyond our control? Surely.
So, thank you, slats, for whatever you’ve kept out or kept in. for lending a little of your charm.
