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In the car, in the passenger seat. Her friend had parked and got off: the day before she had forgotten some books at her uncle's and was now going to take them. A small secondary street, some cars parked on the sides of the houses.
She looked around, she had never been there. She turned her face, a door in front of her. It was left ajar, one could glimpse a small entrance and then another door, closed. It reminded her of her grandmother's house, when as a child she spent the afternoons playing in the garden while she sewed or was busy with the housework. She suddenly felt sad, lonely. Excluded from the life she wanted to live. Left outside from her own home.
She shrugged her shoulders, saw her friend walking towards the car with the books in her hands. She got in, started the engine and drove away.
She looked again at that door. No, she didn't want to feel that way. She wanted to open the door of her home, of the life that belonged to her. Without any more fears to stop her. Sadness and her sense of inadequacy had swept them all away.
The time to turn the key had come.

 

 

 

 

 

INFO AUTHOR

Written by Marta F., 22nd April 2005

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