The Door on 22nd Street

   I was walking down 22nd St. like I do every day after work when I saw something I hadn't before. It was a door, on the old wall full of graffiti. The door was old and damp, and a good two feet taller than my head. Salmon-coloured paint was peeling from the wood, which smelled like cedar. The whole door was rotting away except for a brassy handle, which looked like it had just come from Home Depot today, much unlike the rest of the door and its neighborhood.

   Dazed by curiosity, I pulled the handle. The door moaned and creaked, as if it was pained by this action, which I imagined it was, by the looks of it. Inside was my late Grandma Rosie's house. Grandma Rosie had been gone for twenty years or so. The recreation was eerily accurate, down to the sag in the royal blue sofa.

   I smelled a cherry pie baking, just like the smell of Grandma Rosie's famous cherry pies. I drifted to the kitchen, and there she was.

   "Grandma Rosie?" I presumed, confused out of my mind.

   "Christopher!" she exclaimed, holding out her floured arms for a big hug. "I haven't seen you in, say, twenty years! My, have you grown or what! I best be putting a brick on your head to slow down that mighty fast backbone of yours."

   "Uh, hi, Grandma. What time is it?" I questioned. I was getting pretty sleepy for some reason all of a sudden, and my eyelids were pushing themselves down.

   "Half past five, wait on that couch right there for a while until Uncle Joe comes over so we can have a celebration!" Uncle Joe had died a couple years ago in a car accident. I stumbled to the old sofa, and eventually fell asleep as Grandma Rosie was calling up Joe.

   I woke up leaning against the old wall full of graffiti. The door was gone, and the sun had already set. Rubbing my neck, I started towards home, reliving that strange dream over and over in my mind.

The End

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