Before doors: eating in a high chair. Scribbling crayons on wallpaper by the baseboard. My grandmother piano-singing at Christmas, and candles. Then I entered the breezeway and Dad showed me his dumbbells. I walked into the bathroom and was alone. I brought the slippery milk bottle in all by myself, that dropped and broke on the wood parquet. Then I went to camp and checked into my cabin. I went into that office to see the principal, and through that door into that room, that door and that room. I lingered in the hall not wanting to enter my schoolroom. I went in where the walls were orange and other colors and the colors kept changing. In another room amped bass waved through my body, my bones. I went in and the room was dark and I didn't know if she was alive or not. I went in to be tested, I went in in trouble, or was surprised and rewarded, I went in for X-rays. I went in the wrong room, the right room at the wrong time, through that door into that room. I couldn't always get in, sometimes it was locked and I had to go away. Some rooms led to other rooms, and some surrounded others: a shrine can have a whole room for a door. Some doorways have lost their doors, or had lost them long ago. At an archeological dig you might see holes where doorposts used to be, wood rotted away, just the disturbance of the soil preserved, and you imagine those rooms, their insides, now once again "open" air, just air. Before doors nothing was "outdoors." Now we like to go outdoors. Tramping along seems close to when we didn't know words, before we had these skills we can't get out of, can't even want to get out of. And now the deliveryman has rung the bell, just another door for him, a job of walking up to doors, but it's my birthday and I wonder who has thought of me across all these thresholds.