What's Missing

I opened the pantry

expecting to find something

and found mostly air.

A cereal box with an expiration date

from three months ago.

A half-empty jar of peanut butter,

lid left loose.

Some crackers in a sleeve

nobody wanted.

My kid asked for a snack.

I opened the pantry

like it might have changed

since yesterday,

like abundance might have appeared

if I just believed hard enough.

But there was just

the specific absence

of what should be there.

The bare shelf.

The dust where things used to sit.

The evidence

of attention slipping.

I used to know

every shelf by heart.

Used to plan meals three days ahead.

Used to keep the house

stocked like we might starve

if I wasn't careful.

Now I'm opening doors

to find what isn't there,

failing to provide

the small, simple thing

of a snack.

My kid is waiting.

I'm standing in front

of the open pantry,

counting the ways

I've let things go.