It was bound to happen: we all go through that narrow door which swings wide for us. My friend got there first, a little out of breath, surprised, no doubt, how easily it opened.
I had hoped to catch him, having glimpsed him in the crowd ahead. “Friend!” I called out, as the traffic clattered past, but he was farther up the hill and would not have known my voice
from sixty years and a continent’s divide. As in a dream I saw him move, but I could not move. As in a dream I called out, but I could not make a sound.
We change from moment to moment, but not that we can see. Green leaf to brown while we are not looking. Then winter’s pale light and bare ruined choirs.
We see that door in front of us, our hand raised to knock. We hear the footsteps coming up. A voice behind the door calls out our name. We are home.