The Kitchen Doorway Junction

The sugar bowl sits green enamel on the counter, exactly where I placed it ten years ago. The air smells of wet concrete and cloves. A stack of plates, chipped blue ceramic, lists my full name where the numbers should be. I hold the letter; my script is looping and dark ink, the address I wrote for myself. I turn from the sink, waiting for the sound of a key turning in the deadbolt. The passage from the kitchen opens onto a narrow, wooden door, which opens onto another door made of brass, engraved with the year 1998. The second door stands upright, admitting the warm weight of silence. I step across the threshold.