What I Didn't Notice

I found it when I moved the dresser,

a rust spot in the baseboard where the pin

had worked its way into the wood—

how long? Years, probably.

I'd walked past it a thousand times

without seeing, without knowing

something small was holding fast,

keeping its place.

The wood was soft where it had been,

a tiny channel of damage, precise,

and I thought about all the small things

that anchor us, that keep us pinned

to the walls of rooms we rent or own,

that hold us in place while we pretend

we're choosing to stay.

I pulled it out. The hole stayed.

I set the thumbtack on the shelf

and didn't fill the hole

because I wanted to remember

that something had been here,

holding, working, anchoring,

while I went about my life

not noticing a thing.