True Center

I stepped back through the narrow gap in the cedar gate and crossed the damp patio stones in silence. Slipping beneath the rubber sweep of the storm door, I made my way across the dark floorboards to the hollow under the sideboard. The pumpkin hung where I had left it, but the brass collar had shifted a fraction of an inch along the screw threads, tilting the rind toward the wall. I did not leave it crooked. Crouching low, I cupped both hands around the cool ridges and lifted just enough weight to nudge the wire loop into the center groove. It settled with a dull click. I leaned back against the baseboard, resting my boots against the brass nozzle.