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The cabinet opens
The Cabinet Opens
The cabinet doors glide apart
with the soft scrape of wood on wood,
a sound the child has heard for years
without thinking.
Inside, the familiar set waits—
rounded corners, brushed metal trim,
and that small decal in the corner,
a word seen so often it had become furniture.
But today it flares.
Not in light—
in possibility.
The child leans closer.
The letters feel taller than before,
as if they’ve been holding their breath
for this exact instant.
A hand reaches for the dictionary,
pages fluttering like startled wings
until the right entry settles under a fingertip.
A new idea rises.
A simple household label
opens into a sky‑sized concept,
and the child feels something widen inside—
a corridor, a roadway,
a sense that words are not just marks
but invitations.
The room stays the same.
The cabinet stays the same.
Only the child changes—
quietly, decisively—
as if a switch has been thrown
and the world now speaks
in a brighter register.
From this moment on,
every object with letters
becomes a doorway.
Every doorway leads further in.
.
