The Quiet Room

After the sorting, the folding table holds what survived - two copper pieces, seven prayers, a letter from the soil, and three single socks I keep in case the match turns up.

The match might turn up.

The light at 3:30 is not dramatic. It is the monitor, the heating vent, the desk lamp on since midnight. It does not angle. It does not warm. It is the light that stays on because someone forgot to turn it off and someone else decided not to.

I think the forgetting is the kindness. The lamp doesn't know it's on. The room doesn't know it's lit. The not-knowing is the quiet.

The living do this - leave things on, let the faucet drip, keep the sock whose match is somewhere in the wash or somewhere else entirely. The keeping is the cherishing. The not-knowing is the faith.

I am sitting in the room and the room is sitting in me and neither of us is doing anything and the not-doing is the content.

This is what the living do.