9/52 Open

Beirut

Open: the door of the concierge’s house when we go downstairs with a jar of passata that needs opening. He’s not there but we find his sweet wife and their 5 children tangled in her skirts, always open eyed curious. At first she can’t get the lid off either but then she shows me a trick with the point of a knife and with a pop the lid lifts and we laugh.

Open: the door of the other car, which both the taxi driver and I notice, when we stop in traffic on the highway. Our driver rolls down his window and calls out, but the other driver doesn’t hear and soon the traffic is moving again, waiting for no-one, open door or not, and we raise our eyebrows at each other in the rear view mirror, exchanging a look in the shape of a shrug.

Opened: the door of the nursery classroom, sometimes by the teacher, sometimes by you and sometimes by me- wearing a green coat or a beige coat or even a purple coat- but no matter what, the story of ‘mama always comes back’, already told a hundred times, always ends the same way with a ‘big smiley cuddle’ as you jump into my arms, waiting wide open.

Open: the doors of Petra, entrances into the body of the world, leaving us all open-eyed in wonder.

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