I remember the day I left
as though the door had made the choice.
The hallway stood perfectly still,
and somewhere behind me,
a clock continued its ordinary work.
For years, I called it an ending.
I gave it dates, explanations,
and a permanent place in my memory.
I became very good at describing
what I thought I had lost.
But memory is an unreliable witness.
It keeps the departure,
forgets the hesitation,
and edits out the hand
that almost reached for the handle.
Today, I found the letter
I had written that morning.
One sentence, unfinished:
If I stay, I will never know
And suddenly, the door was different.
Perhaps I hadn\'t left something behind.
Perhaps I had walked towards
the first thing I had ever chosen
without knowing how it would end.