A memory.
I am the youngest of four siblings. The entire family stands outside the front door in the pouring rain, as we have, on returning from a day out, been inadvertently locked out, and no one has a key.
I, the smallest, have been lifted up and into the milk chute, the little cabinet-like box adjacent to the front door, normally used by the milkman to deliver milk and retrieve empty bottles.
On this day, I am delivered through the milk chute, head and arms first, my father holding my feet as I crawl through, until I call out "okay", (as my hands touch the floor inside), and am able to right myself.
I am reborn.
My family.
And a (desperate) act of hope and trust. I am supposed to reach up, open the door from the inside, let them all in and be covered with hugs and cheers.
But I do sense, just for a moment, that I am in control.
It's not often that the youngest has power over three older siblings and two (quite wet and tired out) parents. But, for a moment, I relish my control. For a tiny second, I ponder the repercussions of walking away to my room and leaving the rest of them outside.
I am silent. And still. As a mouse.
*
For the first time in more than forty-five years, I recall this event. Chester and I are outside the door of our rented cottage on Ocracoke Island.
I can't find the key.
I stand at the door at the top of the outside staircase on the sun-filled wooden deck, turn out my purse and pockets, scan the deck, the stairs, the ground, but no sign of a key.
And I recall that distant, long ago, rainy day of my delivery through the milk chute.
When I was in control of my family.
Family.
I think of the old George Burns line:
"Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city."
I can relate to this, and not just because they are far away.
And they are far away - my parents, gone, my siblings, scattered around the world, my husband, at home tapping trees for maple syrup production in the damp, slushy Ontario spring.
For a brief moment I see myself as a five year old, in control, and for some reason, as a fifty year old, I take it.
On the sunny deck, I gaze mindlessly, lost in thought. My mindless gaze takes me to the window adjacent to the front door, and I realize that I have left it open. With surprising ease, I climb through it. The key, I see, is on the kitchen counter. When I open the door, Chester, as if nothing is out of the ordinary, goes to his water bowl, drinks, then curls up on the sofa.
All is well.
*
Back to the rainy day of my childhood, and of my delivery through the milk chute.
I peer through the opening, and see my father's face outside, gently coaxing me on.
It is too much for me, as I see in his face the hope and trust, and decide to let them in.
I reach up to the doorknob with two hands, and turn.
It is not the last time that I save the day (in this way), and for this I am grateful.
Give me my fifteen minutes of fame, and I will relinquish control.
At least, for my family.
All is well.
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