Every house I saw had them. An upright plane dividing the world from an interior; threshold where entry, exit are the only options left. One house hid windfall apples behind its back; another led me to full-on pareidolia as it made faces at parents trundling babies by, at an older woman in an outfit color-coordinated to match her dog. There are places behind places here. Drapes get jerked back, leaving a window wide-eyed in surprise. I stand in one screened doorway, straddle a worn metal sill—this is the permeable membrane through which we open or close, turn past into present. This is the reason I smile.