The drawer I do not open

There is a drawer in the kitchen I do not open. It has a recipe in your handwriting. It has the receipt from the night we ate too much and walked the long way home. It has the small key to a lock we threw away.

I have considered moving the drawer's contents. I have considered burning them. I have considered, briefly and seriously, taking the drawer out of the cabinet entirely and carrying it down to the river.

I do none of these. I cook around the drawer. I open the one above it. I have been doing this for two years and it has become a quiet daily geometry, the body avoiding what the body remembers.