the pantry door

narrower than its frame, or wider, depending on the season. in damp weather it has to be lifted at the knob and shouldered at the lower hinge; in dry, it falls open of its own accord and lets the cool drift out of the pantry in a long pale tongue across the tiles.

only the cook and the housekeeper open it, and only ever for one thing at a time — a jar, a pat of butter, a string of pickles, the last of the apples. children are forbidden, which is to say they reach in by the elbow when no one is watching.

it sounds like a sigh and a small protest. the bottom edge, swelled where the lino once leaked, drags a faint quarter-moon into the stone every time. the custodian has stopped trying to plane it; the building wants this door to stick.

field-note · in august it opens silently. that is how one knows it is august.