The Red Door

When I drive through my neighborhood, I see almost an absurd amount of yellow doors. It makes sense, yellow is usually seen as a bright, welcoming color—the color of the sun, of daffodils, of sunflowers.

But I don’t wish for a home with a yellow door. I don’t wish for 17 rooms and a housecleaner. Marble floors or immaculate grass. No, for me? I want a home with a red door.

Maroon. Bordeaux. Dark but pleasing to the eye. I want it to feel warm and cozy, filled with earth and jewel tones, beckoning those who enter to stay, extending an invitation by simply coming inside.

I want a kitchen where people can sit and talk inside. Where coffee and gossip can thrive. I want a garden I cultivated myself. With a graph of the lilac bush, my aunt Kelly gifted it to my mother.

Raised beds built by my husband. Ones that I had requested as a one-off dream that he remembered. Saying, “Wanting a garden isn’t too much of an ask.” And when he sees them, he realizes my spirit can give life to things, and he finds that incredible.

We dance together in the kitchen. He looks at me like I am the world. And even when we are angry, we still hold hands in our bed at night.

I’d like two chickens: Henrietta and Goldie. I will have to chase the cats away from them daily. Or maybe we will have a big, dopey, dog who protects them?

The most important thing to me is there is so much love and passion in my home that only a red door could contain it. It would truly be home and I would never forget that.

Yes, yellow is welcoming and bright, but if there is no passion or love, to me, there isn’t a point.