What One Does at Arrival: Part 1
They open the door because I’ve arrived. I move to step inside, one foot over the cracked threshold, mid-air, inches above the living room floor, the padded welcome mat. One foot is nearly grounded while my arms stretch in that circular maneuver, embracing others, accepting an embrace. It’s what one does at arrival. Step in, share greetings. The door is still open, one foot now firmly down, the other one closely making its entrance; I’m now inside.
I’m thinking, for god’s sake pretend this is our introduction, that I can create a first impression, erase what you know, what you think you know, leave that on the porch, so I can walk in for this first time. The hug I accept is light, unsure, comes with a pat, attached to a how are you, how have you been, attached to a caution, a flashing light, a warning.
The door is closed. I am inside. What happens now, let me hand off my coat, thank you, it’s cold out. Then it’s good to see you rolls like a muffin from a table, you look well, you look tremendous, so glad you are here, offer a drink, offer anything, turn up music, there’s punch in the dining room, help yourself.
I am inside and I am very much still outside. Still on the porch, no feet within, calculating the risk, the escape, running back down the stairs, hiding behind the garbage cans, creeping silently toward the sidewalk and around the corner to freedom, to solitude, to safety. Punch sounds perfect, this is lovely, thank you, so glad I could make it and thank you for the invitation, very happy to see everyone, been too long, yes me too.
I’m down the street with my bag and my coat and I’m running.
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