I'm at the vending machine at midnight. The ER is finally quiet. I put in a dollar for a candy bar. It gets stuck on the spiral.
I see a can of paint in the maintenance closet across the hall. Labeled 'touch-ups'. It reminds me of my father. He painted houses his whole life.
Today is the anniversary of his death. Three years. Nobody in my family says it out loud. We're all still carrying it.
I'm the middle of five kids. I used to be the one who smoothed things over. But after the funeral, my older brother and I stopped talking. Sixteen months of silence.
My hand hovers over the vending machine. I could hit it. Make the candy bar fall. Instead, I pull out my phone.
My brother's name is on the screen. A text from two minutes ago. 'I'm in the parking lot. Can we walk?'
I leave the candy bar stuck. I walk outside. He's leaning against his truck. We don't say much. We just start walking.
The doors I thought were closed forever were never really locked. I just needed to stop trying to force them open.