I stand at a door.

Neither simple nor ornate.

A place that I have been to but do not recall.

Hidden behind a veil I never placed.

A door leading to home.

Unlocked before me.

***

I fear the door.

No, I fear what lies beyond.

What if I am not truly welcome?

Maybe I should try to sneak in through the side.

That would not be proper either.

My intentions might not be understood and myself mistaken for an intruder.

***

He is inside.

The one that I am supposed to have a close connection with.

I worry that he might not remember me.

That my entry would be met with a gun and harsh words instead of a hug.

Pushed right back out the way I came in.

Yet the door remains unlocked for a reason.

***

I do not trust the door.

My nature has conformed to what I know.

I want this building to be familiar but I still hesitate.

The title of father still scary for this not so little child.

Thankfully bravery is still in my nature.

I enter through the front door.

***

He is there sitting at the table.

Turning his head to me with a soft expression.

Without standing he simply says one sentence:

“Come in, I made your favorite meal.”

He remembers.

The door was unlocked because he had been waiting just for me.