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  • Writer's pictureCarol Wiebe

The Red Door

We come into this world through a red door, she said.

He didn’t say a word. When she spoke like this, with a voice that was her own but more, it was best to remain silent.

The way of blood, the red door out of the womb of flesh. She placed her hands so her thumbs were above her navel and her fingers curved downwards. Her eyes were closed. She began to chant, softly.

Red Door

As she chanted, he thought of his mother. He was grateful his mother had carried and nurtured him.

There is a window, also . . . . She shivered. Scenes from his childhood flickered across his memory.

He picked up the phone and made a call. Mom? he said, I’ve been thinking about you . . . . .

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