The Door Too Small

I found the old notebook.

My door is too small.

Always has been.

Windows like eyes

staring down at an entrance

too narrow to fit through,

and I've drawn it three times

in three years without knowing.

My brother drew his daughter a house yesterday.

Her lines don't know the difference

between what's possible

and what the hand insists on.

The door in her drawing

is also wrong.

We share something—

this unease about scale,

about how things should fit

but don't, how you can see it

and keep drawing it anyway.

The proportions live in the wrist

before they reach the paper.

They live in the way

we learned to make things

small enough to hold.