Her unhurried steps broke off in front of a medium-sized print. An arched, wooden door, all warm wood and half buried by foliage, vines beginning their slow creep up the base. Comely and captivating, it ensnared her. An old and weathered door, set back, deep into the frame, cloaked in vines, grasses, and tiny flowers. Crumbling brickmould and splitting wood. A threshold peeking, hardly visible from the greenery. A tiny grove, shrouded and mossy with little white flowers dotted about. A door, nearly overtaken by nature herself. She knew there was no way it could be glowing, but it almost felt as though it were. Was it a trick of the light the photographer had captured? What a gifted artificer she’d happened across!
Between the roar of the cicadas, the oppressive heat, and the haze of allergies, she thought her head would never feel right again.
On that first day, she tried consoling herself that it was silly to be so annoyed by nature. Perhaps a bit rude, too. After all, she liked nature. If there were bothersome parts, well, perhaps that was simply a tax one pays…