The salty, playful wind rolled off the white plaster houses. I could see the cracks in the paint that splintered off, weakened by the sun, to reveal a different history and a hidden identity, before uniformity became.

The stark blue doors all lined up like soldiers, representing a family, a place someone called home. One house in particular stood out. It rested towards the edge of the water, soft sand bleeding into the gray cobblestoned path. I thought of all the rocks that had to have been collected to make it into this path. Scrutinized and smoothed, the insufficient tossed. I wanted to collect them in my arms and whisper to them that their bumps and curves were beautiful, that they didn’t want to be walked all over at all, but caressed by the wind and the sea, unlodged.

Ivy and hibiscus enveloped the small hut, and it reminded me of my father carefully helping his ivy make its way up the wall, one sticky point timidly latching on to any nook it could find. I wondered if this ivy had been given the same care, or just left, roaming wild and untamed. No difference between care and neglect.

One sprig had reached the window, had tapped on the glass, once, twice, three times. The wind would continue to encourage it, but it would wait, patiently. Until the sun transfers it’s warmth into the color of the leaves and it feels harder to stand tall. The stem collapses, and that’s all the withered petals need to shatter into the wind that was once so encouraging.

The silver doorknob. How many hands had grasped it? How many rough or dainty fingers, calloused palms, nervous hands, shaky hands, relieved hands, happy, regretful, eager, reluctant fingertips grazed the door. How many stood here, like me, but never entered. Unbeknownst to the people inside, sharing a meal, laughing, crying, sleeping. I am just nobody and they are just nobody to me.

I will move on. But not yet. There are many more white plaster houses, so many I haven’t met.