The cellar doors were green.
Green flecks of paint can still be seen here and there on the rough, splintered exteriors of the wooden doors, and the hinges on either side are red with rust from the many rains of the many storms they have seen.
The dark, weather-beaten wood has been marked by nature and by man. The rains that have come and gone, that have hit the doors and broken the paint into little green bits and floated them away, have also broken the wood of the doors itself over time. The sun has also been harsh, and the hot, dry summers have bleached the wood, made it brittle. Along the crevasses created by wet and dry, expansion and contraction, man has made his mark as well. If one looks closely, years of love and hate can be seen carved into the doors with hunting knives, pen knives, any thing sharp enough to leave a mark to remind lovers of time spent in the overgrown grass around the doors on pleasant evenings when the crickets chirped softly and fireflies brought the flash of stars down upon the earth.
The handles on the doors are rusted as well, but they still beg to be opened, to be made useful. Gone are the days when children’s hand’s opened these doors to play in the cool, dark depths below on hot summer days. Gone are the days when big, strong hands would open the doors and hustle family and friends out of the sudden storm into the warm shelter. Gone are the days when the doors would be flung open to the soft breeze outside, when the sun would shine on those slanted depths to touch the darkness and bring to light the treasures that lay inside.
While the handles invite anyone to fling open the doors, the rusty old lock and chain that bind the doors shut serve as a deterrent to anyone who might flirt with curiosity long enough to consider trying. Like the hinges and the handles, rust has taken over the lock and chain, and one might wonder if it could ever be opened, even if someone had the key.