I'm reading a book about life and how the brain works. In it, one of the lines reads, "... think about or 'creatively visualize' your front door..."
The door that came to mind was not my own front door. It wasn't even a front door.
The door that came to mind first was and is the back door of Dad's house. The red door, lined in white, with a tan background of aluminum siding, a red porch before it.
Which is odd, in that that door wasn't the front door for the longest in my life, nor the most recent.
And, yet, it may be front door of the house at the last time I felt safe and comforted and loved and rooted and home, all at the same time.
If only I knew the future, maybe I wouldn't have felt that way. It still feels a bit like coming home, though, visiting Dad.