That yellow door symbolizes my teenage years. When I first met you we discovered we lived very close, so we started walking home together. I was infatuated with you. Everyone loved you and wanted to be your friend, but you chose me to walk home with everyday. For weeks we would just sit on your front steps in front of that yellow door. Looking at the sky and talking about trees. What was behind that door intrigued me, but you didn’t invite me in, and I didn’t ask, but I always thought about what was past it. It was like going beyond that door would be getting too close to knowing your life, and that was a mystery you didn’t want me to solve. I found out your mother had died from a friend, and wondered why you had never told me. You were my best friend, but we never really talked about our private lives. One day the air was more frigid than usual, and I asked if we could go in. You hesitated, but went up the front steps and opened the yellow door.  It wasn’t at all like I imagined. Eventually, I met your family, how could I not? I was at your house every day. We played with your cats, and ran around the yard with Bosco, we “made tortillas”, and pronounced words weird. We’d play scrabble and drink tea that tasted an awful lot like marijuana. Your dad would make me vegetarian meals and joke about us getting married. 

You were always with someone, making girls fall for you without any effort. You acted so tough, but I was always there when you cried, and I was the one who threw out your razors. I wondered what it was like to kiss you. And one summer when we were both single, we found out. But much like your house, it wasn’t what I expected, and I almost wish it could have just been as perfect as I imagined. Some things are best that way. Sometimes never knowing the reality is the surest way to be happy.

I know you don’t live there anymore, but sometimes I wish I could just stop and lay down on the front steps. Stare up at the leaves we talked about and remember all the good times we had. You’re moving to California, and I wish I could see you again, but if I don’t I can keep the idea of it perfect, without the spots of reality affecting it. 

Sometimes I drive by that house now and see the yellow door; When I have a house the front door will be white.

You’re talking and I hear every word you say, but I’m staring at your mouth, your chapped lips and slightly crooked teeth, wondering if I could ever fall in love with it and the words it speaks. I turn my attention to your hands and the way they fidget with the trash remaining from the food you just ate, and think of if I’d ever know what it felt like to hold them. The way you walk, it’s more of a saunter, will I ever get butterflies just from seeing you walk towards me? Could I love you and all your traits and flaws if you let me?

You’re staring at me now with a questioning look, and I suppose I heard every word you said, but I wasn’t really listening. I guess you had asked me a question and I quietly say no, praying to God that’s what you wanted. A smile spreads across your face, no was the right answer.

I’m already in love with your smile.

I found a photo of you today. I didn’t recognize you at first. It was like I vaguely remembered you from a dream. I had spent years learning your face, every freckle. The three on your arm that were shaped in a perfect triangle. I knew the way your arms tensed, how you clenched your jaw and shook your head rapidly when upset. I knew the face you made when you were lying, but only about small things. I knew your different laughs, and your overused jokes. I knew your family and your pets. I knew you so well. I wasn’t sure of what you were capable of then, but over time I learned.

I recognized your face in the photo, and realized it wasn’t a dream, but instead a nightmare; I don’t know you.

I'm doing this new thing where I write about someone from my past who has had some effect on me. Some of the people are current, who I think have the potential to change things, alter who I am.
Enjoy, or don't. Doesn't matter to me, really.