The Kitchen Betrayed

I reached for the cabinet where the mugs lived,

but my hand met the wrong wood.

The door was painted the same shade of cream,

but it held the dishes instead—

bowls and plates stacked like small lies.

My mother smiled, showed me the new place:

"Everything's more logical now."

I reached again. And again.

My muscle memory couldn't accept

that logic had rearranged the kitchen

without asking my body first.

My hand still lived in the old world,

still believed in the old architecture.

There's a specific kind of displacement

in reaching for what you've always reached for

and finding the wall.

"You'll get used to it," she said.

And maybe I will.

But something in me will always be

standing in the dark at six in the morning,

reaching for a mug

in a place that no longer remembers

how my hands were shaped

by years of finding it

without thinking.

The new cabinet was efficient.

But the old one knew me.