I don’t remember what the man looked like yesterday who held the door open for me in the post office—maybe he had a beard,
maybe a hat—but I recall the slight tension in his extended arm that stretched out a few seconds more than was comfortable
as he was leaving just so I could walk in with my hands at my sides. And I barely see the girl at the bakery who did the same—
round face, beaming smile as if being kind when she didn’t have to activated every last endorphin in her brain. It would be nice
to think we’re made that way—helpful for no other reason than the pleasure it brings. Just think of how many doors
we have to walk through in a lifetime and all the little increments of joy we get helping young mothers with arms
full of kids and old men with canes make their way through the portals of time that are no less monumental
to them in any given moment than a drawbridge defending a castle. And so when I left the bakery yesterday with
one hand holding a hot cup of coffee and a bag of rolls in the other I gave a little push with my rump so the door
would swing open for the man coming in or maybe I was just wagging the tail I do not have with undisguised contentment.