By Annette Marie Hyder
There were red doors, blue doors, green and yellow, weathered doors with wood as smooth as satin. Doors with microcosms of their own in wood lice, mold, lichen and gold colored ants in the cracks and crevices of their parts. Warped doors, broken doors and doors with no discernible doorknob (although the ones you could see were glass knobs and brass, fancy and simple wooden latch). She had pictures of them all and every one had been lovingly captured by her camera and her photographer’s eye and I was charmed at first by this diversity of doors thematically primed for a profusion of porches and limitless limens. The doors stretched like so many trunks in an endless forest but I found myself, on getting to know her better, finally lost in her maze of endless possibilities with no room in the subject field for an actual choice, just door after door after door and now that I think of it — all of them closed.