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.