i. the hour before anyone asks

The Hour Before Anyone Asks

You wake before the obligations do. The kettle clicks. The window holds a soft, undemanding light. Nothing has needed you yet, and so you can need yourself instead — for an hour, or for the time it takes the steam to clear.

You move slowly through the apartment. Not because you are tired, but because you are practicing the only velocity that belongs to you.

The phone is face-down on the counter. It will resume being a phone soon enough.

Coffee. Light. The cat's quiet appraisal. Nothing yet has a name with a deadline attached.

ii. notes from the train

Notes from the Train

The train carries other people's lives in soft parallel. A briefcase opens; a sandwich is unwrapped; a child watches the rooftops as if they were a parade.

You are between places. This is the only honest geography you have all day.

You make a list of the things you are not thinking about. The list grows long. The train slows for a station you do not need.

Outside, a wall is being repainted the same color it already was. You consider this an act of devotion.

iii. the errand as practice

The Errand as Practice

You walk the long way to the dry cleaner. You carry a list of three things and return with two. The third was always optional; you only wrote it down to feel the pencil.

The route is a small, inscribed ritual. Past the bakery that no longer makes the rye you liked. Past the dog who only barks at bicycles. Past the doorway that smells of cardamom on Tuesdays.

An errand, attended to with breath, becomes a kind of devotion. The grocery is a chapel if you slow down enough.

iv. tea, counted in steam

Tea, Counted in Steam

Three in the afternoon. The light has slid from the kitchen wall to the living room rug. You boil water for the second time. The steam rises and you watch it as if it were a small private opera.

The tea is genmaicha. You measure it with a wooden scoop that came from a shop you no longer remember the name of. Memory leaks at the edges. This is allowed.

You sit. The cup warms your palm. The cat performs its slow audit of the windowsill. You count to a hundred and lose the count at forty-two and start again at one.

v. the inventory of a tote bag

The Inventory of a Tote Bag

A novel you have read and re-read. A receipt from somewhere unremembered. Three pens, one of which works. A linen handkerchief. A small tin of pastilles. The library card of a friend you have not seen since spring.

A tote bag is a kind of sediment. The most recent days settle on top; below them, layers of older intentions, abandoned errands, weather you forgot was coming.

You do not empty it. To empty a tote bag is a small annihilation. You let it carry your archaeology.