On the implementation of privacy

The doors

to my master bathroom

are just that—doors. Plural. Double.

There are two of them.

I’ve seen them referred to as French doors.

But they remind me of

doors in old, traditional homes

in India that also come in twos.

Those doors are small, with frames

made of strong, solid wood,

and thresholds that are high:

commanding you lift up one leg to cross to the other side.

The door frame is short, and

you will probably have to duck your head to go through.

When the doors close, there is privacy:

the lip of one covering the gap between them.

So, make sure they’re closed in order.

A worn down wooden latch can be wiggled into a slot for a lock.

They are made

as an entrance from a public space

to a private one.

A private one that you enter with humility

with head bowed and knees bent,

hands bracing you on the same door frame that

so many have walked through for a hundred years before.

“Double” is where the similarities stop.

The double doors

of the master bathroom

of my north Texas house

that was built in the early 2000s

are tall.

Any proud Texan can walk through them

with head held high, and with room to spare.

There is no lock.

Even closed, there remains a gaping cleft in between them.

The doors are there for decoration.

They’re symbolic, even.

Privacy is based wholly on trust and faith

in the members of your household.

Trust that my two-and-a-half-year-old has not yet earned

as she stands there on the other side of the glass while I shower,

watching me with an expression that holds both

the comfort of unquestioning acceptance,

and the unease of wide-eyed curiosity.