between

 hallways are not

a place 

you stop

living does not

happen in

the hall

kitchens, bed rooms

living rooms

even bathrooms

so much of our lives 

play out

in those 

spaces

but a Hall 

is a waiting room

a vestibule

an entryway 

we forget 

the waiting rooms

that punctuate our lives

spare no second thoughts

for the sacred space

of a pause

the lines between points A and B

garner no reverence

a young woman spills into the foyer from the bustle of a busy, drizzly city street outside. she turns back and through the door, blows a red-lipped kiss to her friends walking on without her.

the noise of the city dies abruptly away as she closes the door. removing her damp macintosh, she hangs her purse on the hall tree, peering into the mirror to smooth crystalline rain droplets from her short, curly bob.

further inside, a woman's high-pitched laughter rises above the low titter of conversation and the sharp clink of heavy silver cutlery on fine china.

the young woman straightens the lapels of her collar, smoothes her skirt and with a deep breath squares her shoulders. she appears resolute. 

she strides confidently through the doorway leading into the home, her heels making sharp,  determined sounds on the marble floor. 

a pool of rainwater gathers quietly under a cast-off umbrella wilting in a stand