On my evening walk around the neighborhood I pass many homes, large or modest, new or weathered. Most of the time I see them as objects along the path, like trees transformed into places of glass and iron and slate. Cars lay dormant outside, potential energy patiently awaiting the need for kinetics. But they are afterthoughts; necessary add-ons proving that, like bees, we still hunt and gather at the known places.
The other night I began to think about the doors of each house and the people inside and the stories they make. We know the myriad measure of our own lives, both behind our doors and inside our heads. But every door of every house we walk past contains the histories of us, small portals into the endlessly evolving mosaic that is humanity. The pictures on the walls, the boxes full of memories, the conversations and phone calls, the unused appliances under the sink, the awards; all combine to weave the tapestry of days.
This seems obvious now that I write it, as good things often are. Sometimes the deepest mysteries can be overlooked, like the doors that whisper their secrets into the night air.
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