Could we see the first door?
And was it “really” the first?
No one ever remembers.
Even so,
We are thrown into the world—
–kicking and screaming,
Sometimes sickly—
–barely a whimper—
–or worse!
After that rude first door,
We could choose the doors along our way.
Or at least we like to think so.
Where would we be without delusions?
Many doors were but illusion.
We only wish they were there—
–or not there.
Sometimes we were forced through.
Sometimes we crawled through.
Sometimes we leapt through—
–chased by fire.
Many times we only realized we had gone through—
–when we heard the latch.
Sometimes it slammed shut—
—like prison.
Other times we didn’t even know—
–until we passed through the next one—
–or until we heard the hinges squeak.
Sometimes we confused windows—
–for doors.
And weren’t the doors with windows a great help?
Sometimes doors opened to regret—
–other times to longing.
Sometimes they were easy to open—
–other times hard.
Sometimes they shut on our fingers—
–with swearing and screaming.
Sometimes we sweet-talked others,
Arm-in-arm through doors–
–and sometimes they refused.
Other times we followed like shy puppies–
–and sometimes we were smarter.
Sometimes doors were entrances—
–sometimes exits.
Sometimes doors provided refuge—
–other times a means of escape.
Sooner than later,
There is one last door we all go through–
–in spite of all the doors we can still see ahead.
There will always be unfinished business.
The friends,
And family,
The ex-wives,
And, ex-husbands,
And all the others we leave behind,
Will be the ones to hear that last door close
(If we are lucky).
And it will sound,
To them,
Like all the doors of our life.
And again,
We still,
Will not remember.
Charles Buell