Washing the windows of morning I wander among the letters of prisoners posted on walls, there are invitations and announcements and stories of doors expecting to open at any moment. Why are there so many closed doors? She was happy at the news of the young man who finally found his father’s magic hat hidden in a bomb shelter under a tree house. It reminded him of the days when his father was young and would do magic tricks pulling a new mother out of the hat. He’s new mothe was full of a blue turbulence and the ride was rough but she always had a smile for him when he came down stairs in the morning, the smell of bacon and coffee and the kitchen window steamed over from the dishes being washed.