Thresholds

Every door I have stood in front of

has been a question.

I have not always answered.

There is a word for the space

between inside and out —

threshold — and I have lived there

longer than I have lived anywhere.

My mother stood in doorways

when she was thinking.

I used to think she was leaving.

Now I think she was arriving.

The light that falls across a threshold

is the most honest light there is.

It belongs to neither room.

It is only itself, passing through.

I have been learning to stand

in the middle of things

without needing to know

which side I am on.