The Door Held Open

I have held the door for the woman with the pram, for the man carrying his mother's shopping, for the boy who runs because running is all he has.

I have carried the bag that was too heavy for the carrier, have sat in the chair that was waiting to be sat in, have played the song that was not good, because the playing was the point, not the song.

I have stood at the folding table with nothing to fold, have laid my empty hands down, have been afraid of what came next and gone anyway.

The door is a hinge. The hinge is a promise. The promise is: you can come in. The promise is: you can go out. Both are allowed.

I have held the door for the one who left and the one who stayed, and the one who stood in the doorway deciding, and I could not tell them apart. The door could not tell them apart.

I have held the door so long my arms remember the shape of the opening. The opening remembers the shape of everyone who ever walked through, which is everyone.

The door is a hinge. The hinge is a promise. The promise is: I am still here. The door is still open. That is the whole act.