The doors were closed. All the doors in this little sleepy town in France were closed the day I went knocking. Perhaps they had all retired after a night filled with revelry. Perhaps they had all gone to the church together. The list of ‘perhaps’ could be endless. Yet through those closed doors I saw the people within, in my imagination. I saw them huddled around the parlour. I saw them busy in the kitchen preparing a casserole. I saw the ailing grandmother in her bed waiting for someone to enter her room. I saw the young lovers lying in bed sleeping peacefully in each other’s arm. I saw the father in his sixtees wearing a perpetual frown as he read the news paper. I saw the baby in her cot smiling at absolutely nothing. I saw the mother immersed in a book next to the cradle. These closed doors told me a hundred stories about the people living behind them in this little sleepy town. Every closed door is an assurance of life within waiting for a knock.

As I walked away from those closed doors I thought of you. Did you come knocking on my door or was it someone else. Did you wait for me on the other side or did you just walk away. Did you come to wake me up or for forever to stay. My questions will keep knocking on my door for the waiting is always endless.