When you're young, and the days are hot, and you've exhausted all your toys and indoor activities, you go back to the basics.

A simple ball being tossed about between two little girls was what kept us entertained.

But it went too high.

It fell right over the fence, and we heard it land in the rocks.

She volunteered to go retrieve it, so I stayed put.

But she was gone for a long time. Longer than necessary to get the ball and bring it back.

I crept through the back door, past her two sleeping dogs, out the front door.

I found my friend meandering about, a puzzled expression on her face.

"It was right here, I heard it land," she'd muttered.

We searched around for it; in the bushes and the trees, walking around the brown fence. Perhaps it had rolled into the street? We couldn't see it. We retraced our steps, we reenacted the initial throw. We looked even where it wouldn't be.

I walked home that day with a strange feeling and a wary hesitance in my step.

They asked me if I had had fun. I told them about the ball.

My grandfather, a quiet man, looked at me and told me, "There are doorways."

And that answered everything for me. He didn't have to elaborate.

This experience of mine could very easily be written off. It could have been anything.

But what do you think?