by Cyn Bagley

Created on: March 06, 2008   Last Updated: June 25, 2008

The door to my kindergarten class was closed. As a girl child of five, I looked small as I faced the door. My index finger traced the swirling wood patterns that adorned it. Mesmerized, I pleaded to its uncaring surface.

"Please, please, please open." I whispered.

In the background the soft hum of children and their teachers filled the hallway. The doors were open in the other classrooms. But mine-

Like a malevolent eye, the bright burnished doorknob stared at me. I was late. If only Mom hadn't made me eat that last bit of soggy, messy cream of wheat. I had stared at it for hours before finally putting that last spoonful in my mouth. I hated the texture of that cereal as it slid down my throat. Now I was late.

I sat down hard in front of the door. I wrapped my arms around my stomach.

Just turn the doorknob. That's all I had to do. It was so easy. Inside my classmates were holding gerbils, finger painting, listening to stories, dancing, or maybe, practicing the alphabet. I could be with them singing songs or dancing the "Hokie Pokie." I could. I could open the door.

Once again, I stood up and put my hand on the burnished doorknob. But, if I opened the door, I would stand in the door alone. The other children in the classroom would turn and see me. Everyone would know I was late. A tear trickled down my face. Mrs. Taylor's face always smiled, but she would frown . . . at me.

My breath hitched. Then the tears poured down my face. What should I do?

My fevered mind looked for some solution. Maybe, maybe, my Mom could open the door. Maybe if I walked through the door with her that I wouldn't be alone. I looked longingly towards home. Maybe . . . she cares enough. . . Trying not to think, I left the door and ran across the street, running home, not looking for cars, knowing my mother could save me.

She stood in the kitchen, my Mom, suds to her elbows as she washed the last of the breakfast dishes, humming to herself.

She wiped her hands on a towel before asking. "Cynthia, why are you home?"

"The door was closed," I said. "Will you open it for me?" My shoulders tightened, as I searched her eyes. I can't go back by myself. I can't. I can't.

"Yes," she said, simply. I let out a deep sigh of relief, my body relaxed.

Mom dried her hands on her apron. She took my hand. We walked across the street and opened the door.

Learn more about this author, Cyn Bagley.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.