Seventh Gate

The battered and beaten copper sign is crooked and is hanging by one rusty nail.

It says “Seventh Gate”.

It looks as though a child has scrawled it on in a hurry,

As though they were racing off to play and this chore was a ridiculous inconvenience.

The thrills of anticipation beyond this gate are worthy of foregoing anything and everything …

It interrupts all logic and responsibility. The energy is palpable.

As I push it open it lets out an old and worn groan… crying for oil and begging for sympathy.

I want to help so I spit on the hinge and move it back and forth.

I swear I heard it say, “Thank you.”

I walk through and am surprised that everything isn’t as opulent as I expected.

I always imagined pearl ladden gates or a golden cobblestone path.

That’s what we were told.

I look down and there is a scuffed up and shabby doormat that says…

“Welcome”.

My soul is overwhelmed and saturated. It feels incredibly familiar.

Then I realise… I am finally home.