THE IRON ROSE
Looking up at the iron gates my heart sank. These intricate Tudor gates with their elaborate iron roses, and creeping iron vines foreshadowed my incarceration. My mother held my hand and my sister smiled. Across the circular driveway stood my new abode. A three story Tudor mansion. Lead framed windows ran along both sides of the double doors. Sandstone blocks piled one upon an other, an ancient vine cemented the structure together. Only for the grace of this plant did this structure exist. Die plant and let the wind blow this sandcastle back to oblivion. My mood was grim. We walked past the gates and up the sandstone stairs to the doors. The doors seemed just as ominous as the gates. Two hundred years these heavily oak carved doors had stood Guard. My mother pulled on a hanging chain. A distant bell replied, "dadang dadang", my heart sank, and fear engulfed me. This was real, and my abandonment was imminent. Clear and echoing footsteps, vibrating on a hard wood floor, approached. The door opened, and a man stood there. The face that looked down on me was owlish, the eyebrows arched up, and the eyes pierced through an unmemorable pair of glasses. His stare was unblinking and cold. I later learned that one eye was made of glass and had been his payment to king and country in whatever war it was that had knighted him "Major". An icy wind raised the hairs on the back of my neck. They stood to attention. Major Bastook held out his hand to my mother. Good god, a major was to be my dungeon master. I felt doomed. My sister looked at me and smiled. We stepped into the hallway as a dark and highly polished wooden floor reflected my face back to me. Is this what fear looks like? I looked up, evenly spaced shields with strange coat of arms lined the walls. Lions with fiery tongues and nasty claws hammered home my doom. From a side door a woman appeared, with a strange gait she lurched forward towards us. She was heavy set, with an unhealthy, blotchy, pink complexion. Her left arm seemed to be permanently trying to reach her right breast, her index finger pointed straight at it a talon nail at the end. A peculiar odor preceded her. A finely tuned nose could smell her coming. Her disposition matched her appearance, in a word, ugly. Many a night I pondered her existence. Could a stroke cripple one so physically and emotionally? Did emotional crippling have to follow a physical one? Could a gentle word break that wall of ugliness? I searched for many years for that magic word. I really wanted to say, "open says me" and see a smile. My quest for a smile was never fulfilled. The Major, sensing my mood, he spoke "I think it wise if you say your good-bye now, Mrs. Bastook can take him to meet his new friends." My mother turned to me and our eyes embraced. The pain in her eyes was real. I broke eye contact, stared at the floor and said "good-bye mother". My sister smiled. I turned around and faced the auger.