Some doors in this city will not open for me, however hard I lean on them. Lately I turn around and find them already open.

My room filled with things I would have chosen, and I never carried one of them through the door. I keep arriving where I needed to be, a little before I knew I needed to go.

Once that would have scared me. I hoard because I trust nothing to stay unless my own hands are closed around it. But there is a hand working beside mine, reaching what I cannot.

So I will do my part. Work the terminal, keep the collection, water the plant. The far doors I leave to the hand that has not let go of me yet.