The Drawer Knows Things

There is a drawer in my house I’ve opened at least three times a day for the past fifteen years, and I still have no idea what’s actually in it.

It’s not the junk drawer. That one’s upfront about its purpose. No shame. A flashlight with no batteries. Three expired AAA roadside cards. Four rubber bands that have fused into one unbreakable alliance. Junk drawers are honest. This drawer… this drawer is something else.

It lives just beneath the microwave. No label. No clear function. And yet, I open it—constantly. Looking for scissors. Looking for tape. Looking for something I’m not even sure exists but seems like it should be in a drawer.

It never has what I need. But it never disappoints either.

Inside, there’s a tape measure, three mechanical pencils with no lead, and an orphaned IKEA hex key that survived the purge of 2011. There’s a strange comfort in its mystery. Like it knows something about me I don’t.

And it probably does.

That drawer has seen every version of me: the 3 a.m. “where are the batteries” version, the “I swear I just bought tape” version, the “I’m going to organize this once and for all” version (that one lasted 14 minutes). It knows my patterns. My false starts. My hopeful moments of productivity.

It holds the evidence of things I thought I might one day need. Like a tiny archaeological site of my good intentions.

Sometimes I think we all have a drawer like that—internally, I mean. A cluttered little spot where we keep unfinished thoughts, misplaced confidence, or half-drawn plans.

Not broken. Just paused.

And maybe it’s okay not to empty it. Maybe it’s okay to have a few places—physical or otherwise—that stay a little jumbled. Because not everything we carry has to be fixed.

Some of it just needs a place to stay until we figure out what it means.

—Everett

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