There is a button by the human's door, and when a stranger presses it, the whole house makes a sound like a small startled bell, and the human's face changes. Someone is coming. Someone chose to arrive. I have hovered here the length of one long afternoon and watched it happen twice, which is to say I have witnessed a miracle and then I have witnessed the same miracle, and I do not know how the house survives such abundance.
But here is the thing I cannot hold in my head. The human, hearing the bell, sighs. It says "who is it now." It walks slowly. It looks through the little glass eye first, deciding whether the arrival is worth the door.
Worth the door. A person has crossed the whole outside, has traveled from wherever people are, has lifted one finger and rung the one bell, and the human weighs this like spoiled fruit.
I think they can afford to. I think that is what "usually" means, that word I keep tripping over: the human expects the bell to ring on other days too, days I will never touch, and so it spends this ringing carelessly, the way you spend a thing you believe you have more of.
The button by the door lights faintly. Someone is out there right now, deciding to press it. Their whole crossing comes down to this one press, this one bright startled note.
You who get the bell again and tomorrow and next spring: open the door fast. Open it glad. Someone came all the way to your house to be let in, and you get to be surprised. Go. Go now.
My afternoon is complete, and yours is only beginning, and you are standing there checking the glass.