Red Door

We rode in a huge bus down the myriad streets of Dublin, with all the amenities of home, but the bathroom was a little small. We visited a statue of James Joyce, piling out of the bus with wild abandon, glad not to be cooped up anymore. But my eye was drawn to the red door of the house across the street. For some reason the pattern above it reminded me of a spider’s web, delicately thin yet architecturally sound, and beautiful to observe. There is a symmetry to it that is undeniable, and it held my gaze for more than a few beats of my heart. I knew I had few pictures left on my memory stick but I couldn’t help myself. I took it out, and while everyone else was listening to various tales of Mr. Joyce and his exploits I was zooming in and focusing on this door, hoping no one would open it at that moment and destroy the moment suspended in time.

And no one did.

Sam