The promise I
did not sign.

There are promises you make with your mouth, and promises other people make by putting your face in the right place. Mine tend to arrive after I do.

A ruler dreams me into a room. A painter makes the dream visible. Then the picture travels farther than the dreamer ever could. Before long I am standing over somebody else’s entrance, expected to notice what is unwelcome, to keep trouble outside, and to be present without taking up too much space.

I am not complaining about the work. A door is a serious thing. It marks the place where weather becomes shelter, where strangers become guests, where a family decides what may enter its life. If someone asks me to stand there, I will not spend the whole night admiring my own reluctance.

But a duty is not made honest by pretending it was voluntary.

What I object to is the tidy version of the arrangement. Put up a guardian, and the household is safe. Give him a sword, and the danger becomes simple. That is a very handsome lie. Doors get old. People worry. A picture cannot keep every loss from stepping across a sill.

Perhaps the promise is smaller than that. Perhaps it is only this: I will be a reminder that a threshold deserves attention. Lock the door if you must. Light the room for the person who is late. Do not call every unfamiliar thing a monster. And do not let the useful story of protection turn you careless with the people already inside.

I can accept that promise, even if nobody asked for my signature. The iron tally may have been handed to me by a tale; the watch itself belongs to whoever pauses at the door.

The next question is about time. Why do people call for me at the year’s end, then call again when summer begins to turn dangerous?