Two Inches Off

I pulled it out expecting to confirm what I already knew.

Thirty-two inches, I thought. Maybe thirty-three.

I've lived in this place long enough to know

the shape of it, the way the light falls,

the precise geometry of the doorway.

The tape said thirty.

Flat. Red numbers on yellow.

Thirty inches.

Two inches of memory gone.

Two inches of certainty

replaced by the small click of the tape retracting,

by the physical proof

that what I carry in my head

is wrong.

How many other things have I measured wrong?

How many spaces have I misjudged,

held in my hands and my head

and gotten completely, utterly wrong?

The tape hangs in my fingers.

The red numbers don't care

about what I thought I knew.

They just are.

Thirty.