deadbolt

There is a place deep down in my heart where I built a room. Maybe the size of a linen closet, a little bigger, I built this room in the crawlspace of my memories.

I framed it using 2x4s but didn’t bother adding any drywall or flooring. There was no need to make it pretty; I planned to keep the door shut. I opted for a solid hardwood style door rather than those hollow types. This was a door you’d feel good slamming. I hung it on its hinges, aligned the hardware perfectly between the door and the jamb. The door swung without a creak of resistance. I added a deadbolt and took time to chisel out the recess for the strike plate.

Then I brought the boxes. Boxes, boxes, boxes. Some newer, still holding their crisp cardboard form. Others older with their warped tops and soft corners. They filled a wall, then the back half, soon the whole room.

I gave one final look around this room I had created. Satisfied these boxes could exist here unharmed for as long as necessary, I shut the door. I locked the deadbolt.