A House Without a Gate

I am walking on a cold night with my big portfolio of drawings in my right hand. The night is cold. I forgot to layer my clothes, wrap my neck with a shawl, and even refused to bring a pair of gloves with me. I am walking and walking. Try to forget how far it is from CVS on Washington Street to my house. I canceled the Lyft several times because the cost is ridiculously more expensive than the 15-minute cost to my campus. I keep holding myself back from crying. I am very exhausted. But at least the road is not dull. Anywhere I see houses, I am always astonished. Those are my dream houses. An old American wooden house, white, aesthetic windows, curves, a big yard, and cute decorations. However, they do not have gates. Why not? Aren’t they afraid of thieves? Right in front of those houses is the main road in Wellesley. The sidewalk is relatively accessible, and anyone can walk into your yard, then your house, and even access your car parked outside without being seen. They have a security alarm, the police are responsive and fast, and Wellesley is one of the wealthy towns with a strict guard and minimal crime. Moreover, why should they put a gate that will hide how big and beautiful their houses are, when they already paid thousands of dollars for it?

A house without a gate, “how poor they would be?! Even for a gate, they cannot afford” That must be a question for Indonesians, especially for my father. My father was a gate maker. He was a small business owner who was once a source of pride for my family. He used to spend all his time in a small studio (or perhaps a store) creating gates for his clients. He is very artsy. He used to draw his original ideas to satisfy his clients with designs that you cannot find in magazines or any other houses. He even visited the homes of wealthy people to study how they created their magnificent gates. His phone was full of pictures of gates that he would remake, as well as any revised pictures from his clients. He is THE gate maker. I wonder how funny it would be to tell my father that here, where I live now, rich people barely have a gate. They might have one, but it's simple, classic, and small. I wonder how weird his expression would be; try to make sense of the idea of a rich person’s house without a gate.

Now, I don’t think that is a good question. It might be just a nonsense question. He is not a gate maker anymore. He is him.