My brother sent the link without a warning

My brother sent the link without a warning.

Nobody said the photos would go live.

I scrolled through—front door, kitchen, the back hall—

and stopped on photo three. I had to give

the phone a second look. Dead grass. The fence.

And there between them on the ground: the door.

The handle rusted, weeds grown through the latch,

the gray metal flush against the floor

of the yard, the way it always was.

I was nine the first time we went down—

a real storm, my father said it qualified.

He counted seconds. My mother's flashlight, brown

dirt floor, nobody talking. The sky above us

doing something rotational and low.

We sat on the steps and waited. Then it passed.

He went up first. We followed. The usual show

of aftermath—a gutter, a long branch.

We went inside. Nobody said a word.

The listing says the property has storage.

I've zoomed in on that photo. I've deferred

my brother's texts. He wants to know I got it.

I know the price. The closing date. I've known.

I just don't have the word yet for the door

you went through twice and came back up alone

into the yard like nothing had just happened,

like the ordinary light was always there.