the winter door

the winter door only opens when the temperature drops below freezing. nobody knows whether the wood swells in summer or the lock contracts in cold; both have been measured and neither explanation holds. it is set into the north wall, low, behind a hedge that thins by november and is gone by january.

those who use it are the ones who walk in the dark months: the ice-cutter from the lake, the chimney sweep on his vigil, the children with one mitten missing. it leads into a cold corridor that smells of soap and frost, then into the rear of the kitchen.

the etiquette of entry is to stand outside for the count of ten before knocking. the door wants to be sure you have brought the winter in with you, not merely your impatience. then you push gently; in true cold it gives like paper.

field-note · in a mild winter, you do not pass at all. the door is honest about this.