A new arrival to my home, this antique piece was provided by my interior designer before she moved on to other rooms in other houses that wanted to be touched by someone who understood the elements of color, scale, style, and artistic use of space. Primitive and rough, it stands in a bedroom corner by the door that opens onto the deck, balanced evenly on two sturdy legs that look like they’ve been gnawed by teething puppies, its paint rubbed off lengthwise in a lazy, uneven strip near the latch, with a second color randomly peeking out from beneath the unpolished, mottled topcoat. Its front is spattered with raw patches, and some of the wood running along its sides is splintered. I have 2 rolls of cork shelf-liner waiting to be installed on its three shelves that currently hold Christmas presents for family members that are labeled and stored in plastic baggies, a dozen copies of the book that contains my first published short story, my CD player that I hardly ever use, and a tape recorder that makes audiocassettes of my writing that I give to my stepmother. The workers, who moved it at least four times before it came to rest by the door, keep calling it "the blue cabinet", but to me its color is transparent. When I look at it, I see worn. I see old. No-nonsense. Useful. I'd like to think we're alike, my cupboard and I―perfect examples of imperfect loveliness, that fit just right in our own peculiar corners.