If my mind is a house with countless doors down endless hallways, and those doors have always been closed and locked, or maybe just closed and waiting to be nudged open, then now it’s as if every door in every hallway on every floor stands wide. I shrink from these open doorways, fearing what I will see if I creep around their corners; empty drawers, bare windows, layers of undisturbed dust on every surface. My footsteps would echo on hard floors and blank walls with no signs of life to dampen the sound of my passing. At least when the doors were shut I might peep through the keyholes or press my ear to the wood, gleaning in fragments the mysterious lives within. At least when the doors were shut I could wonder at what their locks protected from intrusion – or barred from escape. But open wide like this they hold no wonder and I am only too aware of the vacancies, the silences all around. If my mind is a house with countless doors down endless hallways, then whomever lived in these rooms is gone, vanished, removed.