Our house is a bit gothic, in the sense that it has many strange closets and wardrobes that surely lead to Narnia if you try hard; it has bizarre angles and stairs and different ceiling height in every room. A couple of years ago I ripped off plywood from all doors, and underneath were the most wonderful old-fashioned carved panels.
When we moved in twenty-six years ago, there was a door between what became Staffan’s study and Sergej’s, our oldest son’s, bedroom upstairs. Staffan sealed the door and put up wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on his side. There they have stood all these years. Until yesterday. Yesterday I attacked them brutally, and there suddenly was the sealed door. Of course I knew it was there, it is in the same door opening on the opposite side that I used to have my doll house. Still the sight after all these years was eerie. Unpainted plywood, fixed with oversized screws. Luckily, I haven’t packed all screwdrivers yet. Really, I wouldn’t be surprised if the door opened into some other dimension.
Now from where I sit at my desk I can see into Staffan’s room. Light is pouring though the opening. Why haven’t we done this before, or at least when I moved into the adjacent room? I like open spaces. Staffan says he won’t be able to work with an open door between us, but for the remaining twelve days he will have to endure.