The Arrangement She Made

I opened it for aspirin this morning

and stopped. Everything had a new adorning.

Bottles lined by height. Bandages arranged.

The small flashlight she'd placed—nothing strange

to her, but everything shifted in my sight.

She didn't ask. She just made it right.

The aspirin isn't where I kept it before.

It's where she decided it should be. Her store

of logic. Her priorities. The way she thinks

about emergency, about what connects

to safety first. I don't move it back.

I take her aspirin. I let that be fact.

She's telling me something about what matters.

About what a child would reach for when fear scatters.

I think about the cabinet before her hands

touched it. I think about all these little commands

she's making. Rearranging the space where we keep

what we reach for when hurt runs deep.