There are doors we never notice, doors we pass right by every day. Doors in shadow, doors without numbers, doors without doorknobs/ Doors on the sides of buildings, doors in the back, doors at the top of rusty metal stairs, doors below ground level, and on the sides of garages.
And yet, these doors all open, all lead somewhere, to something – to hallways, and stairs, and dinner smells, and shoes by the door, and welcome mats, and ultimately, to the places people call home.
Lots of people, calling every kind of space home.
It is a big deal, having a home.
You can’t even imagine all the spaces, all the lives and the homes behind all the doors you never see. And every single one is important. Not to you, maybe, but to someone. Families, old people, screaming babies, lonely souls, all of them getting by, spanning time, all of them with futures and dreams and hopes and ideas and sadness and despair. And stories. All behind those doors.
We walk by the doors and we don’t see them.
If we don’t see them, they don’t exist. At least that’s how we proceed.
I have to see them. I have to find them — many without numbers — and knock on them. And see who’s on the other side.
It is my job. To counted the uncounted. And ultimately, make them count.
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