still life with drop biscuits
A message from the town offices this morning, announcing the garbage trucks
had been sidelined by snow. On the dining table: a year's worth of receipts
to sort and itemize. There's a drip in the basement whose origin remains
elusive, and there's a boy upstairs who is sulking for reasons he can't yet
articulate. We are pressing on, of course, as we must do. The snow
will melt eventually. The deadline will approach and we will file the papers.
The trail of water leads somewhere, and the boy will learn the words
when they find him. But this morning, I wanted to keep everything suspended—
time, weather, even the small grief that stirs and wobbles within us.
I wanted to warm the house by slow and patient degrees.