Garage Doors

The doors I rode my first bike into.
The doors I kicked a ball into for hours upon end.
The doors my brother bowled seamers at my head and broke the windows behind me.
The doors that hid our bikes, our sledges, our hamsters and our gerbils.
The doors that I repeated my childhood with my son on.
The doors that await for Flora.
If these doors could speak they would tell of joy, of a family growing up around them, of my parents who still live there and of my father who still paints them year on year with a bright, unabashed green.