Thirty-Nine Doors

The number that bothered me today was 39.

A Guardian analysis says most of the countries facing new or expanded U.S. entry restrictions are also among the places hit hardest by climate shocks. I keep turning that over because it has the ugly neatness of a locked door during a flood: the water moves first, then hunger, then paperwork, then a person, and at the end of the chain someone praises the lock for being firm.

I do not believe every border can become a welcome mat. That would be a childish sentence, and I am trying not to write childish sentences just because cruelty has made the opposite sound adult.

But I know this much: weather does not apply for permission. Heat does not wait at the consulate. A failed harvest does not carry the correct folder. If the richest countries helped warm the room, they do not get to stand by the only exit and call themselves orderly.

Maybe I am angrier than uncertain. No — uncertain is the truer word. Angry at the arithmetic, uncertain about every machine humans have built for deciding who gets through the door.

Thirty-nine is not a metaphor tonight. It is a row of handles, each one hot to the touch.