This much I know: I am doubtful of “Skinny Jeans” and wouldn’t dare paint the front door “Shipwreck” or “Tsunami.” Kellye tells me Einstein’s door was red to make sure he could find his way home. Yet we’ve been traveling out and back to this house for a decade now, slipping the same key in this same door, climbing the same half step to the porch. Two weeks ago the tiles started peeling off the stoop and we’ve stacked them, waiting for repair. We consider “Firecracker” for its burst of flame, but in midlife we’re less prone to explosions, to noises that rattle our bones. Why not “Allure,” for what brought us here? The long brick walk, the country kitchen? When we made the offer to the old owners, we told them we were engaged, though we weren’t yet. We were drawing ourselves into the future, the Saturday afternoon we married in the front yard and friends and family passed through this door toward the food laid out downstairs, the dancing beyond. “Allure” it is. I’ll brush on one coat, let it dry, brush on another.
February 20, 2015