Triangulated
The old kitchen cabinet stands like a silent witness to decades of family meals, laughter, and the steady passage of time. Its wooden frame, once strong and polished, now bears the weary marks of age—deep scratches, faint water stains, and patches where the paint has chipped away to expose the raw wood beneath. The original color, perhaps a warm cream or soft blue, has long since faded, leaving behind a dull, uneven hue that hints at the many hands that have touched it over the years. The edges are smoothed by time, worn down from years of opening and closing, as if the cabinet itself has softened with age.
Once perfectly aligned, the cabinet doors now hang slightly askew, their hinges rusted and creaking with each movement. The metal handles, dulled from constant use, carry the fingerprints of past generations—mothers, fathers, children, and guests who have reached for a plate, a cup, or a jar of sugar for a long-forgotten recipe. Inside, the shelves sag just slightly under the weight of time, holding an assortment of mismatched plates, antique spice jars with peeling labels, and the occasional forgotten relic—a yellowed cookbook, a chipped teacup, or a tin of biscuits that no one remembers buying.