By SARAH WU

and i knew it intimately, the wooden door that sat in front of my room. it was a friendly presence, solid, and comforting. it held up the drooping ceiling of the white, caving plaster, and kept the little mice in the kitchen out of my bed. 

sometimes i would sit next to the door, softly petting the wood. its surface was often smooth and slick, so on days when it rained, the door’s surface grew damp and upset from humidity. i leaned a dry washcloth against its surface, and saw the slow way the cloth gathered up the door’s dampness and held it. on sunny days, i collected spit and sweat from my body and pressed my moisture against the wood, to relieve the harshness of thirst, the cruel parched days.

and most importantly, i learned how to press my fingers against the door’s creases. it was the type of door that was intricately carved—gold gliding, and creases that held stories in the same manner that one’s palm would. it was not god to who i learned prayed to, but to the silence provided by the door, to the safety contained by the door. and to this god, i memorized its cracks and faded designs, its lovely exterior.

when i was six, the local carnival unfolded their wondrous tents and their bright, twinkling lights into the air. it was a rare trip out of the many lonely days of summer. we walked past the front of the ferris wheel, and my father looked toward me with an expectant nod. but when i saw the small, squished chairs of the metal rides and ferris and my father’s large body, i thought about our closeness. let’s go somewhere else, i insisted. 

and even as my father’s gaze grew sad and old, i turned around and led my father’s large body to the nearest tent. on the front of this new tent, the wooden sign said, the world’s greatest fortuneteller. inside smelled like old incense and expired tea leaves. it was the scent of oldness and things that i did not recognize. 

the fortuneteller carefully swirled her fingertips against the fleshy bits of my palm. her fingers felt cold and solid in the way real humans had, not anything like what i’d imagine a witch to have, and i looked up accusingly and told her this. and her lips pursed and her eyes grew cold.

you have a restless mind, she said, and the tip of her fingernail dragged across my palm.

can you see my mother? i asked her, because at that time, i did not realize that it was not fortunetellers that could see the dead but mediums who could. she raised a delicately dyed eyebrow and glanced at the odd shadow of my father, who lurked with the plastic beads.

the fortuneteller blinked. i see. she considered, then nodded. the rings on her wrist jingled in melody to the cool lilt of her voice. what is your mother’s name?

my father swayed forward. 

maria, i said.

maria is a lovely name

and before i could respond, my father’s hand clasps around my wrist and pulls me away, out of the old, musty scent of tea and into the dripping heat of the summer. 

when he releases his hand, my feet stumble away from him, and my wrist aches. my father reaches out again, but i turn away. i’m sorry, my father says, and his eyes are sad again. 

the sunrise is sliding over the horizon. it is still warm and sunny outside, and since it is a glutoneous day, my father leads me to the ice cream truck, and buys me a large vanilla ice cream cone with rainbow sprinkles, exactly the way my mother used to buy it for me. he sits there as i lick and lick the melting ice cream, and i cannot stop the way the ice cream melts, and the way my fingers tremble in that warm, wonderful evening.

i’m sorry, my father says again, all quiet. i miss your mother terribly.

and though i had gotten my palm read when i was six, the door did not have a fortune teller to dance her fingers against the etchings on the wood. so most importantly, i memorized the creases of the door, the way the shape of the door molded under my fingers. and to the door, i told secrets that i never told anyone else. at night, i would press my head against the solid surface of wood, and tell it things, silly things

and i told it: the day before i went to the carnival with the fortuneteller, my dad taught me how to skip rocks. the sun shimmered against the surface of the lake, and i imagined it was perhaps the soul of my mother, come back to visit a year after she drowned. and i told my father this, described the way that the way the lake became my mother’s body, cradling the skipping rocks so they could stay on the surface

and there was an odd scent on my father’s breath when he turned around and stared at me with eyes as large and unfamiliar as the rocks we were skipping

and the stare followed me back, even as i ran and 

locked the door.

and that night, i heard the pounding against my door, and even through the safety of that thick, wooden door, the smell of whiskey drifted into the air. please come back, my father pleaded outside of the door, i need you to come back to me

please maria

i need you

and the door rattles and shakes and stays silent, and i press my fingers against the door’s creases and it is not god to who i prayed to, but to the silence provided by the door, to the safety contained by the door. and to this god, i memorize its cracks and faded designs, its lovely exterior.

Writer | Sarah Wu ’25 | sdwu25@amherst.edu
Editor | Lainey Noga ’26 | enoga26@amherst.edu