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MEMORY, CONTEMPLATION, RETROSPECTION, AND DEATH MARTHA KALIN Glowing Doors A glowing door’s inviting, just like people. Like scented trees or midsummer sky. Here, a polished knob, there, crystal panes, doors speak of warm interiors, the solid nature of burled oak, stippled pine. French door, Dutch door— truths more telling than I’ve ever known. Some doors are secrets waiting to be known— wood-grained or beveled, open or not. People might marvel at the certain way a door unlocks its satin gloss and lingers here. Why don’t we notice? Isn’t it our nature to contemplate symbols, forever speak of dreams and what they mean? Why don’t we speak of glowing doors and what they mean? Unknown. Some doors are subject to the whims of nature. An orange door leans on a tree but people don’t see it, or the yellow one propped here against a propane tank, the closet door abandoned with a key left in the door. Another one’s ajar as if waiting to speak, as if the audience were already here, the characters and plot already known. Some doors evoke stored memories of people long gone, impressions locked in folds of nature— They make me wonder whether it’s my nature to wait. I’d wait forever for this doorfilled world, lit from the inside out, to speak to me. I wait for the scene to change, people to enter, for the endings to be known. One startled moment—is that why I’m here? Doors open and close everywhere here. Every possibility of nature is a door glowing. The past, all I’ve known is knocking, my future’s standing in the doorway , blinding, textured, ready to speak. I know that doors open because of people. Shining door, bright mirror, all of nature’s reflected here. Front, back, revolving—speak of the unknown, radiant side of people. ...

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