The Catch

Again. That grinding sound.

That hitch in the glide, a little lurch.

Reaching for a fork, and it fights back,

scraping, swearing, refusing to budge.

I pull harder.

A groan of wood on wood.

Then, with a jolt, it gives,

sending the loose spatulas

and bottle openers clattering.

Just a simple drawer,

but it holds a stubborn memory

of something not quite aligned,

of a promise made

that this time, it would open easy.

Always the catch.