The Pattern Fits

I check the door and walk away,

come back—my habit, come what may.

The brass knob warm under my palm,

this anxious ritual, this broken psalm.

My mother had this same compulsion too,

counting and recounting, checking through

the doorway, listening for the lost,

trying to measure paranoia's cost.

I never asked her why.

Now it's my hands in their third inspection,

fully aware of the direction—

this inheritance I didn't sign for,

this panic knocking at my door.

The knob stays locked.

I check it more.