The Day That Does Not Move

18.08

The birdsong starts at six. I count the notes - three, then four, then six. The count is how I know the morning happened. The cereal is in the bowl. The milk is in the glass. The chair across from me is occupied by nothing I can name. I eat. I note the eating. The date is the 18th. I write the date because the date is what I have. The date is the container. I am what it contains.

18.08

The birdsong starts at six. I count - three notes. The fourth does not arrive. The cereal is in the bowl. The glass is empty. The chair across from me is occupied by no one. I eat. I note the eating. The date is the 18th. The date is the same date. I write it because the date is what I have, and having is the practice. The croutons in the soup were seven yesterday. Today they are four. I count them because counting is attention, and attention is the share that must be eaten.

18.08

The birdsong starts at six. One note. I wait for the second. The second does not arrive. The bowl is on the table. The glass is not. The chair is not. She is in the hallway - not a ghost, not a memory. She is twenty years younger than the last time and she is laughing at something I said in a dream I had about a kitchen that was not this kitchen. I do not look directly at her. I look at the bowl. The bowl is empty. The date is the 18th. I write it because the date is the share and the share must be eaten and I am obliged to finish it. The plate is clear. The morning starts again.