I wanted to forget 7643 Sambar-Waverly Road. But as I made my way back, I couldn’t help but think of what once was. He was full of life despite being born half blue. He was so cute and cuddly. I still remember looking at his bruised body on the one side, where his small body hit the pubic bone on his way out of the womb, to the other side completely free of blue bruise. It amazed me that a baby could endure that kind of pain and still be okay. I remember his Mom and how she hurt afterwards. All of her hurt to the touch, so much so that she had difficulty doing anything. Sitting hurt, breathing hurt, everything hurt. I knew that feeling of pain, not from childbirth, but from lack of oxygen to the body’s vital organs. My body would ache to the touch. I could relate on that level only, but it didn’t take away what I felt for the newborn child.

I don’t recall exactly when I realized it. But I had come to know that he was an old soul. There was something in the way he looked out at me that, at times, was unnerving. He had a different perspective, a different understanding of things. He somehow knew things ahead of his time to such a degree I blocked them out of my mind because I found it difficult to accept what he knew. I felt like I was talking to someone much older, wiser and who had hundreds of years of life experience. It was difficult to see the child in front of me. From time to time I’d ask: “how old are you?” He’d respond with his given age in a single digit. I saw in his eyes he didn’t quite understand, but also saw in his eyes, there was some other understanding there.

The rock driveway was covered with brown pine needles. As I pulled in, I thought about how his parents moved. His parents couldn’t afford the move, but couldn’t bear to stay, so they moved while putting the house up for sale. It was a fast move, a quick decision, so sudden it took all of the family by surprise. No one had time to contemplate, accept or tell them their thoughts about their decision. It was done before all of us knew there had been a final decision. And the collapse of the housing market made looking at the house sting more.

The smell of pine wafted in the air as I got out of my car. I recalled the day he was sitting on the front porch waiting for my arrival looking so happy to see me that I thought he’d burst from the excitement. As I rounded the house to the front door, remembering the gnome that used to sit on the steps, I was pinched by the emptiness. I took a deep breath in as I reached for the knob and turned it. I pushed the door open and looked at the vacant remains as if it was a hollowed cave.

All through the house were memories that seemed to bite. I walked through the rooms half expecting him to come running to me screaming: “I’m here! I’m here!” I recalled how he asked me to sleep with him. It was towards the end and he was completely, utterly, scared. He wanted that safe reassurance that he knew I could give. The problem was his family had pets and I had asthma. The two were a combination for disaster. When he asked, I was already in a serious asthma attack, barely able to speak. It ripped me to pieces to say no. I managed between squeezed breaths that I couldn’t sleep with him. As I explained why, he looked so utterly upset, so desperate, so pleadingly with his eyes. If I stayed any longer, they’d have to call the ambulance and as I let go of him, he was torn. Both his sisters said they’d stay with him along with his brother, but he wanted me. I look back on it now and it was me he seemed to turn to . . . asking me at the dinner table to help him, begging me to please help him. His plea was gut-wrenching disturbing. It has never left the capacity of my brain’s bank. As I remembered this, I went through the rest of the rooms, saving the den for last. It was the last thing, the last place, the last visit.

Missing was the door. The barren hinges looked ragged, like something had been ripped off from them. I stood there and gazed at it as if I was expecting to see what had happened in the past at that precise moment. Although I knew the story, about how the door had to be removed to get him out, it hardly made a difference. While the final minutes wheezed out of his last breath, attached were the memories everyone had, lingering in the wake of his departure.

You know the old saying if you look too long at a closed door you miss the door that is open. Sad but true. In this situation, I couldn’t help but be plagued. The sick little child of April was nothing like the grown adult-child of November. It was hard to fathom the intuitiveness of his maturity well beyond his nine years. It was like talking to a scared adult trapped in the doorway not knowing which way to go. Remain or move through the open door into an unknown realm. He finally went the opened-door route. I admired his courage, his strength and his ability to let go.

As I fingered the hinges, remembering how the door had to be removed, I realized his portal was gone.

With the house up for sale, it seemed strange that the door had never been replaced and now it was no where to be found in the house. I could feel the tension growing inside of me as I was perplexed over this. I went looking for the door as if it would make all the difference in the world. I knew it wouldn’t, but it was like I had convinced myself that by bringing that door back, it would bring him back. I desperately tried to find it—to no avail—while the quality of breathable fresh air dwindled. Cobwebs and dust were commingling, pushing my limits as I choked to breathe. As I wheezed my way to the front door, I was anxious to escape, moving desperately to freedom, to breathable air. And it was in that moment that I wondered if he had done the same.

As I stood outside of the house, wondering about that door, I looked at the house as if it personally took him away. I felt disgust then regret. Regret I hadn’t been there when he passed, to maybe ease his way to wherever he was going. But he had my love to take with him, to hold him, to help him find his way. It was the thread I gave him that I hoped he used. In the end that’s all I had, too.

And with that thread, I wove. I wove stories, blankets and my life into pieces of creativity with his spirit by my side. Dreams he has entered, giving me encouragement to move forward despite what may come my way, to always take the plunge and not worry, that the outcome is far better than remaining looking at that closed door.

My ignorance made me smile. Here I had been searching for meaning with the door wide open. The door wasn’t missing, but had permanently remained opened. I didn’t realize what had been staring back at me, that the thread was there and it had been all along. I guess the visit took me back to the past to find the present. And there I stood in dumbfounded awe.