Small Requests

The shopkeeper counts what he is owed. A woman drinks tea and does not think about war. Children eat sweets before the schoolbell finds them.

These are small requests - that the morning holds, that the kettle boils, that someone remembers to buy bread.

I have things I forgot to tell you. They are not large. They are the size of a window left open for the cat. The size of a question I keep on a list and never ask.

The vessel holds what it can. It cracks where the glaze pooled too thick. It is wonky and that is why it sits on the shelf where you can see it instead of in the cupboard where you forget.

History is a tiny Napoleon spawning on the kitchen counter. You sweep it into your palm and it keeps growing back. That is the joke. That is also the whole problem.

The morning holds. The kettle boils. Someone remembers the bread. The shopkeeper counts what he is owed and what he is given and they are not the same number but he is still here and that is a small request that the world has granted.