Doors weren’t supposed to be that shade of blue. But, this, this door, like a passageway to rebellion, beckoned those huddled on the front steps, to turn and stare.
Around the plaza, the other doors were black. Solemn, hauntingly void of cheer of any kind.
Tilda peered through her white lace curtains at the women, men, and children in their ragged clothes. Pure white snow floated slowly to the red cobblestone path in front of her house. Swirling snowflakes awoken childhood memories of ballerinas pirouetting on that stage her grandfather Gustave had taken her to in Paris.
Her husband Abner’s pipe remained on the mahogany table in the cherry wood paneled drawing room. Just exactly where he’d always left it.
Within the beautifully appointed walls, she stared out her dormer window at the women, children, and men who had chosen to position themselves over the heating grate.
Lifting her crystal wine glass to her lips, she took a sip. Warmth washed over her. Tilting her head, she peered curiously at the crowd just outside her window. “I wonder why they just don’t go to their own homes and then go to a proper store for suitable attire.”
Jenny W. Andrews Copyright 2021