What's Different

I reach for the cabinet where the mugs are

and find dishes I've never seen before.

The kitchen I've spent a thousand hours in

has been reorganized without me,

and I'm standing here holding the door open

like I don't belong,

trying to place

where everything went.

The familiar space is gone.

It's not gone—it's here,

but different,

and my muscle memory

has no answer for different.

I've been in this kitchen

at midnight, at sunrise,

I've made coffee here,

opened this same cabinet

without thinking,

my hands knowing

where to find what I needed.

But now my hands don't know.

Now I have to look.

Now I have to ask.

There's something about coming into a place

you've claimed as familiar

and finding it strange.

It's a small betrayal,

the way things change

without asking permission.