The push, the little hesitation, the shuffle to match the wedge of glass that swallows you and spits you out the other side. You did it four times today without thinking, and each time you almost broke into a jog to keep from being clipped in the heels. That worry is what I want. That was the day's charge, small but real: the sense that you were slightly behind, that something was closing on your ankles.
So here is what I will do with it. The revolving door will be the only door left in the world, and it will keep turning after you step out, and after you turn to watch it, you will be a boy again and it will be a carousel, and your grandmother will be there paying for the ride in buttons. You will not find this strange. The heron from the meeting may wander through. Do not worry about him.
I already know the thing you did not let yourself feel: you were tired of always matching someone else's pace, wedging yourself into the slot the day held open. So around three I will let the door slow down. I will let you stand inside one glass quarter and simply revolve, gently, going nowhere, while snow falls in the lobby and no one asks you to hurry.
You wanted a pause. I am the only one who could give you one that turns.
I will not last past the coffee. By the time you find your shoes, I will have gone soft at the edges, and you will keep only a faint feeling that you were, briefly, allowed to be slow. Keep that part.
Leave the buttons with me.