Two Jars

There are two jars of salt in your cupboard. One has been there since the first week, a year ago.

You bought it on a Tuesday, I think. You still didn’t know what was already in the house. You had a list of all the things you thought you would need, as if beginning a new life were simply a matter of remembering to buy everything.

The first year leaves things like that behind.

Small duplicates. A second extension cord. Two umbrellas, because the first was always in the wrong room. A pan too big for the hob.

You learned how to use the washing machine by ruining that white shirt you loved.

You learned which window to open when the radiator clicked through the night. That the shop downstairs closes at eight, not nine. You learned that one at ten past eight.

And then, somewhere along the way, you stop noticing.

Your hand reaches for the right drawer without thinking. The way home no longer needs remembering. You know how long it takes to get to the metro, which queue moves faster at the supermarket, which step to avoid when you come home late.

They are small things.

But perhaps a new life really begins when it no longer feels new.

When ordinary gestures stop asking for attention. When a place stops being simply where you live and quietly finds its way into the way you move through the day.

The list from that first week has disappeared somewhere.

The jar of salt is still there.

Almost empty.

You always use that one first.

You never bought a third.