The Hinge

Creak. Slam.

Creak. Slam.

All afternoon, that rhythm.

The host's kids running through like the door was a turnstile,

in and out, in and out,

and I was trying to talk about something that mattered

but the hinge was louder than my words.

The mesh vibrated each time.

The aluminum frame held its shape.

The spring did its job.

Over and over and over.

I watched the door more than I watched the person I was talking to.

I could have said: ask them to stop.

I could have moved inside.

I could have closed it myself.

Instead I sat there,

listening to the door,

understanding that I wasn't the priority,

that children's movement was more important than my stillness,

that the hinge would keep doing what it does

whether I was there or not.

The sound got into my chest.

I can still hear it now,

that creak before the slam,

the spring pulling it shut,

only to open again

for someone who belonged more than I did.