What Goes Dark

I was standing at the counter

when the hum stopped.

Not all at once—

it had been dying for months,

that low grinding the house makes

when it thinks you're not listening.

Then silence.

The kitchen went dark

not because the lights went out,

but because I realized

I don't know where I keep the flashlight.

Three years in this apartment

and my hand reached toward the drawer

and stopped.

Which drawer?

The darkness wasn't the absence of electricity.

It was the absence of knowing

where I live.

How long can you stay somewhere

before you become a ghost in your own space?

I stood there, not moving,

not reaching,

understanding that the refrigerator's death

was quieter than the memory of myself

leaving this place.