Sunday, 6 December 2015

The handle

A metallic creak broke the silence in the house. I slightly turn my head to the entrance door. It’s a familiar sound. Somebody standing in front of the door is pulling the handle. But not the one from our door, but the neighbor’s.  I sit there still and smile. As I always do every time when, in a horror movie, a door handle is presented, moving up and down. The tension does not rise with the music. At least, not for me. When I used to live in my parents’ apartment this metallic sound could mean only one thing – one of my grandparents was in front of our door.  Since they lived in a village, they couldn’t make out the concept of locked doors. So, every time they came to visit us, they would pull the handle up and down, being convinced that the door will finally open and that they could enter the apartment. It was no use my mom explaining them that we, the people living in the city, feel the need to lock each and every lock our door has and, moreover, that the poor spring of the handle suffers badly after each struggle it endures. No use, like I’ve written! Not even to convince them to knock at our door. But, it is true, that they had kept their right to yell my mom’s name when in front of the door. They knew that it would always work. And not only in the village. But also in the town. Especially, for people living in houses. 

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