Of Knowing and Unknowing
There’s a drawer in the kitchen that doesn’t open all the way.
It stops three-quarters through. Like it’s keeping a secret it doesn’t quite trust me with. Teasing me with some half-truth it may not fully know or understand.
It isn’t broken—just hesitant. I’ve never tried to force it. Instead, I let it come as far as it wants, then reach in at an angle, fingers navigating the dark edge where things go to hide or retreat.
This is the drawer that holds the almost-useful things: rubber bands that have gone brittle, two mismatched batteries of uncertain charge, a single ring of keys to things I can't remember. It’s more shrine than storage.
Sometimes, in the late hours between work and whatever comes after, I open it just to hear the sound. That quiet wooden resistance. The way it sighs against itself. It seems to be reluctant to open and, in some odd way, desires to be opened. As if it’s uncertain which state of being it prefers and finally settled on both—neither opened nor closed.
