No choice, this bench is now mine.

The Third Drawer

a lab bench from my Father top flipped to hide the experimental scars with three drawers, difficult to open holding experiences, grainy pictures, secrets.

briefly glimpsed, I stuff those secrets back into their drawers to preserve them.

One drawer handle is original, broken wood the second is a cheap plated brass kitchen cabinet handle the third is a spray-painted red utility handle barely wide enough for my hand.

Each one has a history, a story in the pull.

As difficult as the pull may be—

The first handle—

broken, difficult to grip makes opening near impossible the mousy squeak of the drawer almost pulling free murmuring what's stored within memories hidden in fog almost never revealed.

The second handle…

I'm scared to pull out the second drawer. Histories guarded in inherited silence

the drawer protests loudly the oxidized handle cracks splits, cuts my palm, as the drawer sticks half open.

The third handle?

I hesitate, walk into the kitchen wrap my bleeding hand pour a stiff bourbon into a twisted glass from the liquor closet take a gulp—two three

I set the glass down walk back over the drawer still barely cracked open

heart hammering. I pull again,

the drawer screams louder as it exhales an odor, death sealed, hidden.

Was that a hand? Nails broken, beckoning within.

I back away

empty-handed the bench stands, unmoved as I reach for the glass

the sole witness with hand trembling splashing bourbon

Do I need to know?