24-36

The form asked for a PIN—four digits, done—

and my hand typed 24-36

before my brain caught up. Twenty-some

years since I touched that lock, but the fix

is in the fingers. They remember the click,

the small catch when the right number took.

I can't tell you my dentist's name. The trick

my body pulls: it keeps what I mistook

for throwaway. The dial's worn silver face,

how I'd overshoot and have to start again

with fifteen seconds left, the panicked race

before first bell. I got it wrong, and then

I got it wrong again until the thing

just opened out of habit. Not because

I learned it. Because my thumb kept circling

the same groove. The lock forgave each pause.

Now I'm sitting at a screen, the cursor

blinking where those numbers went,

and I want to ask my hands what else they're sure of—

what other door, what other dent

in some gone hallway

they're still working open.