Returning

When I open the door and reach to the light switch the world opens as it did each time. The garlic jar on the ledge, the ceramic cup holding cheese cutters and paring knives. Outside a branch from the ash tree worries the window. It was a place where I knew the drawer pulls, the feel of steps to the basement, the smell of cool cement. If I open the middle cabinet, the linen is there as you left it, well-ordered, none of it fine.