My house had twenty-four doors,
Outside to inside, inside to out
Closets, rooms, stairways, attics, cellars
Dividing discrete spaces
Separated door by door,
Each door breaking up the whole
Like an advent calendar.
And like an advent calendar
Behind each door, wonderful things:
An attic of memories
A bedroom of joy
A closet with my mother’s dishes
A room full of books
A room full of music
And even, like all advent calendars,
Behind one door, a baby.
I open those doors in my memory
like a child imagining
what’s behind the next door.
But most often I remember doing
What you never do with advent calendars:
Closing the last door
And walking away.
#1 in the Advent set