Nine moments of being where you are.
The closer. Not arrived. Not done. What now has, over twenty packs, become this, for now. The phrase that gives the pack its title is the season's final answer to the season's first question.
Three years with this lamp.
It does the same thing every morning: takes December and turns it into something I can read in. The book is the one I bought from WORD on Franklin — third Tuesday of the yeses list. The lamp turned on at 7:14. Will go off at 9:18. I decided this. Will have read seventeen pages. Will have started a Tuesday the right way, in the right chair. The lamp is the same lamp. The light it makes is the light I make with it.
Noticed the chip on a Wednesday morning, lifting the cup to my mouth.
Rice-grain sized, on the rim. Thought I'd feel bad. Didn't. I made this cup with my own hands. Drink from it every day. The chip is evidence. It's on the side I don't drink from — the teapot doesn't mind. Things made by hand eventually chip. I think the cup is fine.
Made the seventh pot in pottery class today.
The windowsill is full — Greg on the left, six uneven pots beside her. The seventh doesn't fit. Glazed blue by accident; grabbed the wrong slip and didn't notice until it came out of the kiln. The only blue one on the sill. Don't know yet what goes in it. When I make the eighth, I'll have to make a decision. The blue pot will go to the counter. The counter doesn't know this yet.
Ana came over on a Friday.
Dumplings. A movie. Fell asleep at minute fifty-six, head tilted back, mouth slightly open in the way nobody is ever beautiful in. Watched her for a moment. Didn't wake her. Finished the movie. Put the throw blanket over her. Sat with the lamp on for twenty more minutes. Two years ago I wanted the kind of friendship where someone could fall asleep in my living room without apologizing. Tonight I had it.
Tuesday.
Real plate, cloth napkin, candle, glass of wine. Mom's soup — third try was the right one. Thin, like a coin on the ginger. Don't be greedy with the salt. The cilantro at the end or it gets sad. Ate slowly. Read three pages of the novel between sips. Made dinner for myself. Set the table for it.
Mom called at 8:07 PM Sunday.
We talked about Sarah's dumplings, Henry's dog, the soup. Told her the third try was the right one. She laughed — said the third try is the lucky one. Call was winding down. Before eat well, take care, she said something in English. Slowly, in the small careful voice she saves for the most important things: "I am proud of you, Jan." English. She's said 我以你为荣 before. Put proud in a card once. Never said it out loud in English, with my name. Sat in the apartment a long time after we hung up. I am thirty.
Half full now.
Was afraid, in August when I bought it, that I wouldn't fill it. The fear was just the cover. Once I wrote past it, it was only a cover. Some days a page. Some days a sentence, and the sentence is enough. Didn't expect the practice to become a pace. The pace is mine — slow, right. Pages I've torn out. Pages I've kept that should have been torn out. Both are part of the notebook.
Eight hours.
Woke at 7:31, unhurried. Drank water before coffee. Sat on the edge of the bed for a slow minute before standing. Shoulders near the right place. Jaw not the jaw it used to be. Hadn't particularly noticed sleep in a long time. The notice this morning was warm. The body said: yes.
What now used to be frightening.
Then it was curious. Tonight it is settled. The answer is: this, for now. I'm thirty. Cardigan in a December kitchen. Teapot on the counter. Cup chipped. Cat on the chair. Lamp on. Plant on the sill. Photo on the wall. Notebook half full. Sticky note hasn't moved. Friends are the friends the year kept. Mother is the mother the trip and the letter and the calls built. The man is, for now, the maybe. The next yes is coming. I am, in some small way, more mine. The this is small. The for now is forever, the way every for now is.