USA. At the door of every house here lies a small cloth that says, in plain letters: WELCOME. I stopped at the very first one. A vow. Written on the ground. The house itself, swearing — to me, a stranger — that I am wanted here. Not a sign. A promise, laid where all may read it. So of course I could not step on it. You do not trample a vow. You do not grind your heel into the word "welcome" while the house is busy meaning it. I stepped carefully around the cloth, onto the bare stone, and bowed to the mat, and only then approached the door. My host opened it to find me bowing to his floor. "...you good, man?" "Your house has sworn to welcome me," I said, rising. "I would not dishonor its word with my feet." He looked at the mat. He looked at me. Something shifted in his face. "...huh," he said. "Y'know, nobody's ever actually read it." I read all of them now. Every house on the street swears the same beautiful oath, in letters worn soft by a thousand careless feet. I am the only one who steps around. I am, I suspect, the only one the houses know by name. So tell me, America. You wipe your boots on the word, and never once look down. I read the vow each time, and answer it with a bow — and somewhere, a doormat finally feels heard.