Portal

Edward Hopper, "Rooms by the Sea," 1951

I’m right there, right here, where that white paint
chalks a bit on my hand. Tear-stains at the hinges,
from rust, I think—or maybe other pentimenti. (The
wind catches on the doorframe, whistles the same
tuneless way we’d whistle when we walked through
the graveyard past our house.) Its wooden joins, all
held together by layers and layers of paint, all ready
to disarticulate—the way a deer’s skeleton may fall
to pieces after the flesh has gone away. It’s been so
long since the doorframe was protection from much
of anything. All it can do is point out there once was
a difference between outside, and in. And I’m outside,
remembering pencil marks made on the doorframe
inside, as we grew. Remembering who made them.