Of Doors & My Restless Stillness

Entering a door
is a conscious ceremony for me.
Each time - 
I look.
I linger.
I remember.

Some doors are ornate, some shy.
Some barely holding on,
like secrets taped together with time.
But I never forget a door.
They stay,
etched in my mind
like scent in old fabric.
Doors are my visual memory anchors.
My maps of moments.

I never walk through casually.
My fingers know the handle
before my feet cross the line.
I pause.
I listen.
I push, gently aware.
Because what if someone’s just behind it?
Because what if something is?

When I’m in a room,
my eyes;
they keep returning to the door.
A rustle, a whisper,
and I turn.

It is not fear.
It is the expectation - 
of arrival,
of a promise coming full circle,
of something… or someone.

Even when I say I need silence,
even when I claim solitude,
the moment it wraps around me,
I wait.
I listen.
I peek.

And only when I’ve locked the door
do I allow myself to rest.

Because I want the first glimpse.
Whether it’s her or him
or they or it or the truth.
Whether it’s life, or loss, or freedom, or fear,
I want to witness it in its entirety,
its raw arrival.
That’s all I ask.

That’s my bond with doors.
It cannot be explained.
It simply is.
And I’ve stopped resisting it.