Cypress Branches Literary Journal - Lamar State College-Orange

Prose – Third Place
Just Beyond the Door
Tiffany Seigrist
“Well, Grandma and Grandpa are gone,” she said to herself as sadness filled her empty heart.
Steering the car into the gravel drive, she could hear the crunch beneath the tires as she came to a slow,
lingering stop in front of the old home place. As she gazed at the lonely door, she asked herself, “Do I
really want to face the emptiness beyond that door?” Their deaths, only thirteen months apart, had taken
away the happiness she often felt when coming here. A gray cloud of anguish descended into the car’s
interior, as if a violent storm approached without warning. What lay beyond the door? The opening of
the door always delivered smiling grandchildren soon overtaken by the aroma of a fresh jelly cake,
warm and dripping with strawberry jelly. Now, what would she find?
Reaching for the cold handle of the car door, she lifted her weary head and remembered the
words spoken at the gravesides, “They are in a better place.” The thought of Heaven brought a smile to
her saddened face and a reminder of why she was here. This empty house which always brought a
pleasant greeting was now hers. She, the granddaughter, was given the opportunity to purchase the old
home place. Getting out of the car, she smoothed her skirt, though no one would greet her, and headed
toward the door. The flowers that lined the porch stood at attention like soldiers, releasing a vibrant
smell to welcome the new owner. The blooms sparkled with dew, a direct result of the care of their
creator, the Master Gardener. Seeing the thriving flowers glistening in the sun, she remembered, He also
would care for her. He would guide her gently through this phase of life.
Reaching for the brass key, tarnished from years of use, she eased it ever so slowly into the
awaiting lock. With a shaking hand, she turned the key and listened for the metallic click. She paused,
tensing like a frightened deer preparing to flee at another snap of a twig. The creaking of the porch
brought her back to her intention. She turned the knob. The door swung open with a whine of the hinges,
a familiar greeting, bringing an ache to her heart. The room, once filled with sweet smells, now had a
damp, musty reminder; it was unoccupied. “No,” she murmured, “This is a bad dream.” It was a dream
from which she would never wake.
As she stood in the foyer looking into the family room, she could imagine Grandma cradling a
sleepy baby, rocking to the rhythm of Jesus Loves Me. In the corner sat the old wood-burning stove; the
black metal finish felt like ice to her touch. She remembered Grandpa sitting in front of the stove with a
mug of hot cocoa as he listened to the crackling of the fire. “Stop torturing yourself!” was the cry from
her aching heart as she turned and walked toward the hall. “I do not want to go home with painful
memories, I want to find something to keep that will offer comfort in the years to come,” she said aloud,
trying to calm her pounding heart. Finding all the rooms empty of their contents, she resumed her
search. Her footsteps echoed, resounding off the bare walls once laced with curtains and smiling photos
of happy families. As she walked slowly down the hall, the floor boards creaked under her weight; she
stopped abruptly. The door to the hall closet was open slightly, inviting her to partake in the mysterious
unknown. Her heart leapt with anticipation; could treasures lie beyond the weathered, paint-flaked door?
Surely not; the house had been thoroughly cleaned. Tugging the door open slightly, like a shy child
entering her first day of kindergarten, she peered into the damp, dark interior. A box peered over the
edge of the highest shelf. Could its contents bring the smile her sad countenance desired? She raised her
trembling hands, and she tightly grasped the sides of the cardboard treasure. Lowering it slowly, her
thoughts raced back in time, wondering if it was grandma’s wrinkled hands that had laid this box to rest.
She carried her treasure carefully to the kitchen counter like a three year old girl cradling her precious
doll. The kitchen no longer smelled of cakes baking in the oven but of mildew from the open, empty,
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