The corridor of my past is lined with doors- doors that house, sometimes imprison, those things we call memories. Some of those doors are locked, labeled, “Enter At Your Own Risk”. Other doors are open slightly, or wide, accessible. Many are even a joy to encounter.
It is a 72 year long corridor. History, too, lies behind those doors- a World War, creation of States, the birth of The United Nations, moon landings, joys, fears, laughter and tears. Shadows have formed at the beginning of the corridor, making some truths harder to see. A blessing? Who will live to say so?