Second Drawer Down

There’s a drawer in every house that nobody talks about. Usually in the kitchen. Sometimes a hallway. Right side, second down. Doesn't matter.

You pull it open and it sticks a little, like it’s resisting you on purpose. Then it gives. And there it is. The junk drawer.

People call it that like it’s a joke. Junk. But it’s not. Not really. It’s where the things go when they don’t go anywhere else. A pack of rubber bands turned brittle. Batteries with no charge left but too guilty to toss. Dried-out pens. Keys to doors long since replaced. Stray screws, some foreign coin that isn't worth enough to convert, but not worthless enough to forget.

Menus from places that closed years ago. Birthday candles, three of them, none matching. A roll of scotch tape with a cracked plastic shell. One old photo. No one admits to putting that in there.

You can tell a lot about someone by what they shove in that drawer. Not the obvious stuff. Not the appliance manuals or half-used gift cards. The other things. What they couldn’t throw away but didn’t want to look at. What they were keeping, in case. For what, they never say.

I had a drawer like that once. Maybe still do, though the place is different now. Smaller. Older. I don’t open drawers like I used to. But back then—I remember there was a screwdriver with the handle melted at the end. Too close to a burner once. Wouldn’t work right, but it felt familiar in the hand. Like something you used to trust, even if it couldn’t do the job anymore.

There was a dog tag too, but not from the military. Just a brass circle with a name I barely remembered, and a number that probably doesn’t ring anywhere now. It was from a mutt we had for 16 years. Passed away one day. Too hard to let go.

The drawer collects pieces of you. Slowly. Silently. And the longer you’re in a place, the heavier it gets. It’s not just clutter. It’s the weight of decisions deferred. Of memories unfiled. Things you thought you’d need, or meant to fix, or couldn’t quite face. That drawer is full of almosts.

Nobody plans to keep a broken watch. Or a single shoelace. But you find them in there, waiting. Like they were holding out hope for another life.

Funny thing is, most people wouldn’t let a stranger look in their junk drawer. You could walk through their living room, touch their framed wedding photo, admire the diplomas. But reach for that drawer and suddenly it’s “Oh, that’s just a mess.” Like you’d see something you weren’t supposed to.

Because you would. You’d see they’re just like everyone else. Holding onto little failures. Making room for things they’re not ready to let go of. Hiding their small, silent griefs under spare buttons and tangle-tied cords.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the drawer stays because we need somewhere to put it all. All the unfinished, undecided parts. Not out in the open, not buried deep. Just… accessible. In case.

You open it once in a while. Looking for a paperclip. Maybe you find something else. Something you forgot was in there. You hold it for a second. You don’t say anything. Then you put it back. Close the drawer.

There’s no ritual to it. No lesson. Nothing neat.

But there it is. Still.

Just waiting.