I remember the click of the latch when I closed the pantry. I remember it. I’m sure I closed it, that soft click. And then the ticking of the clock. But mostly that click. It was solid and true. Jeremiah started the truck and he was waiting on me. So I pushed the door closed, as I had done a hundred times before, and I heard the click. He honked the horn, a rude flatulent sound. He was eager to be off, eager to get back, eager to see if the bentwood was salvageable, and I waited for the click, not really listening for it, but expecting it, feeling it, because I’ve done it a hundred times before without thinking about it.
There have been so many other sounds since – hundred, maybe – but I’m sure. It would not do to have mice running rampant, ruining the food. It was instinct and repetition; you can’t live in an old farm house and not close the pantry before leaving. I heard it and it sounded like a footstep, slow and deliberate. Click. Click. Click. I remember it. I’m sure I remember it.