It was just a wooden wedge

It was just a wooden wedge.

Not even a real doorstop,

just a piece of wood someone shaped

to keep the kitchen door open.

I stepped on it this morning

without thinking,

and it split clean down the middle.

Now the door closes on its own.

Swings shut like it's supposed to,

like it was always meant to be closed,

and I was just the one

who'd been forcing it open all these years.

The apartment feels smaller.

The hallway is dark now.

I can't see into the kitchen

unless I turn on the light,

and there's something about that—

the fact that I have to make a choice now

instead of having the light drift in,

instead of just existing

in the overlap between rooms.

I threw the broken wedge away.

It's in the trash,

split down the middle,

useless.

I could buy a new one.

I could go to the hardware store

and find something that fits,

something that will hold the door open again.

But I haven't.

Instead, I'm getting used to the closed door,

to the darker hallway,

to the way the apartment feels

like separate rooms now,

instead of one space

bleeding into another.

It's just a doorstop.

But somehow the apartment changed

when it broke.