Opening the door upon a brand-new year. Well, trying to open it anyway…

“Is that you, Mr. Moon?” I asked. “I can’t see you in the night rain.”

“It’s OK, I can see you, and I got a message that you were not having the best of days. What’s the problem?”

“I’m stuck in the house,” I said.

He said he understood that after days of rain, lots of people were getting cabin fever.

But it wasn’t that kind of stuck. As I opened the door to let the old year out and invite the new one in, I discovered that I could do neither. I looked longingly out the window at the Sunday paper that a guardian angel had rescued from my puddled driveway and left on the porch where it was reachable and shielded from the rain.

But I couldn’t open the door to retrieve it. 

The wood on my old house doors tends to swell when we have harsh rains, but now, in addition, the door was refusing to unlock.

Sigh, the day had started so well. I had walked down the hall to the front door without my cane. Even my injured hip was cooperating with my positive attitude for the new year.

Determined not to let this ruin the first Sunday of 2026, I slipped on my raincoat and exited the house through the kitchen door. It had also swelled, but the drawer handle hung tight and did its job. As the lock clicked open, I could swear I saw it smile, although desperation sometimes makes you delusional.

I headed out the door holding my cane, but not using it. My physical therapist calls this The Phantom Cane, where you hold it above the ground, just in case you need it. The kitchen porch steps are a bit steep, but I did fine, Mr. Phantom at my side, hovering above the ground. 

The rain felt good on my face as I walked down the driveway to the courtyard and up the easier-to-navigate front porch steps, where I put the key in the lock. Once. Twice. Three times.

It wasn’t happening.

I stuffed the newspaper under my raincoat and walked down the steps, back up the driveway and kitchen steps. The waiting single French door, windowpanes streaked, felt like arms welcoming me home. I put on the kettle on my way back to the front door, still thinking that now maybe it would open.

Talk about being a cock-eyed optimist.

“Any advice, Mr. Moon?” 

“One word. Locksmith.”

I started to laugh. After the year I’ve had, it was a treat to have a problem that I could solve. Well, not me, but a locksmith.

I was inside my home, warm and dry, sipping a cup of hot tea infused with juice from the low-hanging lemon I had grabbed from the tree next to the kitchen steps. And I was having a conversation with the moon that no one could see. 

Email patriciabunin@sbcglobal.net. Follow her on Patriciabunin.com