The House with the Cobalt Door

By Mercedes Rodriguez

Every morning, I wake up and look out my window. And every day, I see the same old man sitting across the street on the porch of the house with the cobalt door. He always has the same sage green coffee mug in hand and that morning’s newspaper, opened to the Arts section. He reads the paper while sipping at his drink. The steam rolls off the surface as he presses the mug against wrinkled face. Is it coffee or tea that reaches his lips as he slurps? His khakis are up to his ankles and I can see his slate knee socks sneaking a breath of fresh air from my window. I always wonder why he reads his paper outside. Does he not have a spouse? Not have any grandchildren running around? Nobody to take care of?

 He sits on the porch under his patio wing. The wing has burnt clay tiles that make it seem like we have been transported to Spain. The house itself is a bit old and dirty, with bricks turning from a bright crimson to a rust. Sitting on top of the roof is a steel plated chimney leaking smog which runs into the atmosphere and straight into my air unit, the sour smoke tickles my nose. Right next to the house is a small and quaint garden. The garden consists mainly of rose bushes that are ivory and gold. There are, however, a few lilac bushes pushed near the corner of the bricks. The birds eye view from my second floor window reveals a tiny forest within the garden. I wonder if he planted those bushes himself? Or maybe his eldest son surprised him with the garden for his birthday? 

The nice old man and I share a garage lot. I park my beat-up green station wagon on my side, but he never parks a car in his space. 

I don’t think he even has a car. Maybe he rides the bus everywhere? Or maybe his youngest daughter is his ride? 

His curtains on his windows are always drawn shut. I can see the floral drapes from my bathroom. Sometimes when it gets dark in the evenings, I can see his lamp on and the shadow of him reading what I assume is an old English book. He has only spoken to me a few times, but he did tell me once that he used to work at Oxford. How much of that I should actually believe is beyond me. 

When Christmas comes, his house remains barren. No lights hang on the rim of the roof, and no tree peeks out of the front window. Perhaps his middle son was not able to make it into town to help hang the decorations? 

He takes out the rubbish bin every Tuesday afternoon, just in time for when the garbage truck makes its way to our side of the neighborhood. Hardly any trash is collected from his side. That is expected, as I presume he is the only one living in the house with the cobalt door. 

All by Dani C.