the kitchen door

three planks, braced twice, hung on iron hinges so the door swings either way for the carrying of trays. the wood remembers a long argument with linseed oil. on the lower-left, the small dark print of a cat who once came in from rain — the mark sealed itself into the paint and has now been there longer than the cat was alive.

through it pass the soup tureen, the kettle, the bread, the loaves for the village, and every quarrel the kitchen can manage between five and seven. the cook does not knock. children duck under the elbow of whoever holds it open.

it sounds like a low thunk and a soft sigh: the latch falling, then the rubber strip along the bottom kissing the tile. on the servants' side the sound is muffled by the green baize beyond.

field-note · the paw-mark is exactly the size of a folded shilling. coincidence is permitted.