The House & the World
There once was a woman who, every morning, had to choose a door.
There was once a woman who woke up in the middle of the day instead of at its beginning. The day never waited for her. It was already stirring pots, warming sidewalks, humming its little electric hums. She would open her eyes and find everything in motion. This was simply how things were. Not dramatic. Just how it was.
In those days, she thought often about another woman who once said she would buy flowers herself. The sentence was small, almost forgettable, but something about it held a hinge. A door. A beginning chosen, not granted. The woman in the house thought about that. How most beginnings are not announced, but entered.
