I wanted to transfigure that door
Into a work of art,
As a ready-made,
By putting it in a golden frame
And hanging it in our living room.
I remember that Sunday morning
When my father pointed at it
And told me it had been a gift
From his grandfather,
Who knew he was likely to be the first grandson
To build a house
And would need it.
It had been the front door
Of the house in which I was born;
It was now the door to the bedroom of my parents.
My father said he had insisted on using it again,
Against the suggestions of his fellow carpenters
Who wanted him to make a modern one, partly with glass.
My father and I were sitting on the verandah
The morning after my return from studies.
Seeing that he had aged, I asked him
If he liked the rather sporty shirt that I had brought him.
He replied by showing me the gifts
that people had given him over the years,
Which he had kept and treasured for life.
Including that door.
I asked about that great grandfather of mine
About whom he had never spoken before;
I became aware of an ancestor I needed to know more about,
Including more of my African, European and Korean beginnings
In those hills.
That door was the only one in the world
That I could knock on at any time
And could expect to be admitted.
I began wondering what I would do with that door
After my parents passed;
Concluded it belonged in the sanctification of art.
When the time came, I hired a van and went for it:
Found the house vandalized, and the door gone.
I insisted on preserving its sacred memory
By making a painting of it.