Mima Wells

The Imprint.

I press the doorbell, four, maybe five times. One last time and I’ll give up. I always make sure to stand back when I’m at the door of an elderly person’s house, you never want to be liable for giving them a heart attack. While I wait, I admire the dark oak panels of the door I have faced hundreds of times; the red brick alcove it sits in, the ceramic doorbell painted with miniature forget-me-nots and the wisteria hanging above it. In fact, I look in all directions to distract myself from the stained-glass owl perched in the door’s inlay. That owl was the most prominent monster in my childhood nightmares, with its fine beak and gaudy green eyes. It is hauntingly menacing for a front door feature. Today, it looks more alive than I remember, but perhaps that’s the caffeine kicking in.