Red Shutters

The house had red shutters, one, two, three, four across from each other separated by the door. I could see them from my seat in the back of the van. My mom said she painted the roses in the door, as I sat there cross legged watching my dad use a drill to screw them in. I only really saw the roses when they guarded the door to the coat closet. Coats make good hiding places. I helped my uncle pound in the new floors we put in the living room and dining room. Well, I said I helped. My brother and I just pushed each other across the honey colored boards until we reached uncovered floor. That weird hallway was one of the first places they finished, so Jared and I slid the ten feet from his bedroom door, past the stairs, into the seashell bathroom, that had the pictures of babies in bathing caps on the wall. When the door was closed, it looked like there was a grumpy old tree painted in the stain. I spent a long time explaining to him why he should lighten up, especially when sunsets fractured in the frosted glass window, across from him. The kitchen was the repository of cold, gray afternoons spent being quiet while my mom slept across the hallway in the living room. Jared and I crouched under the shelves and whispered adventures to each other. We were supposed to be taking naps, and believe me, those long, slippery stairs were hard to sneak down. The square path of floor at the top of them always felt waiting, waiting for bath time, bedtime, or where is everyone hiding time. I always stopped to stare back at my infant eyes and Jared’s baby dimples in the frames on the wall before slipping past my parents’ brown carpet dark room. There was that door with the stairs to the attic that I didn’t remember until just now. It was literally right by my room, but I suppose I didn’t really go there unless my mom was on the stairs ahead of me. There were always more interesting things to do. For instance, once my mom gathered instructional books, videos and scores of small brushes and painted a garden growing out of the wall right next to the solemn attic door. I watched for hours and wholeheartedly approved. There should always be more gardens in the world. The best part of the window in my room was the way the sunset stretched between the power line and the pine tree in the summer time. I would sit there with my nose, chin and forehead pressing against the screen, guarding with my eyes the yard we ruled as soldiers, queens, knights and athletes. A few years ago, we drove down Wolcott Street again, looking for house 626 with the red shutters. But when I looked through the back seat window, someone had painted them green, one, two, three, four across from each other separated by the door.