Page 60

Still

Four moments. Four words. One ending.

Jan is 78. There is no surprise drop.**

60StillJAN
The same lamp Jan has had since October 2024
#01

The Lamp

The fixture has outlasted four bulbs — 2032, 2043, 2055, 2071.

Each time: a new bulb, the same lamp. Fifty-two years. It has been on for every Sunday at four. For every night I've written in any notebook. For the call about the grandfather. For the night Mim went. For the seventy-candles dinner, and every Wednesday morning page, and every Tuesday August came to the kitchen table. It turned on this morning at 6:58 AM, the way it has turned on at some number of mornings I couldn't count and never tried to. The shade has yellowed. The shadow pattern is the shadow pattern. The lamp is on. It will, this Sunday at four, be on.

The slightly-crooked beloved one
#02

The Chair

The upholstery on the left arm has frayed through to the batting — decades of cats and elbows.

The front right leg sits slightly uneven on the floorboards. For years I tried to keep it the way it looked when I dragged it off the curb in October 2024. Eventually I let it be what it was. The chair has held Mim from 2026 to 2035. June from 2035 to 2059. Nine from 2059 forward. It has held me on the floor-time evenings, every Sunday at four, the evening of the call about the grandfather, after the week Mom died, every Wednesday morning of every year. This morning the chair is empty — I'm at the kitchen table. After fifty-two years: frayed, uneven, and perfectly the chair.

The cup is By Pack 60, the cup has Chip 1 arrived two weeks after Jan first kept the cup (mid-November 2027, the canonical Pack 20 chip)
#03

The Cup

Seven chips now.

The clay cup I made in pottery class in late 2027 — the first one I kept. The first chip: two weeks after, November 2027. The second: autumn 2028, morning I don't remember. The third: November 2029, autumn after the grandfather's funeral. The fourth: late 2035, the Sunday Mim had slowed and the cup bumped the sink. The fifth: late 2041, the year before Mom, morning I don't remember. The sixth: a flu morning in 2058. The seventh: a morning in 2071 I also don't remember. Seven chips. In every other way: still a cup. Still holding tea. Still on the counter.

#04

The Page

> still That is all that is on the page. No other words.

No other lines. The pen is held lightly, having just made the final letter. In soft background: August at the kitchen counter, in profile, making tea — soft white hair, the gold-rim glasses, a soft sage cardigan. The lamp on (it is morning; the lamp is still on, as it has been since 6:58 AM). The chipped cup is on the counter beside the teapot. Nine (the cat) is on the chair across the room, in a small patch of morning sun. The wall (seven framed things) is visible to the left in the background. Expression on Jan: *the softly-settled, present, the brand's final face face* — soft warm direct eyes (looking up from the page, briefly), neutral-soft brows, the small contained almost-smile that is the brand's final-pack expression. Sunday morning, late May. 7:14 AM. The notebook opens. I uncap the pen — the black Uni-ball, fine tip, the same as always — and write one word in the middle of the page. I didn't plan it. Six minutes of looking at it. Still is the verb of being kept-the-way-one-is. Still is the adverb of the continuing. Both at once. The lamp was on. The chair was frayed. The cup had seven chips. I hadn't kept any of it perfectly — scuffed, worn, lived-in, loved because of that. Capped the pen. Closed the notebook. August in profile at the counter, making tea. This afternoon, at four, the lamp would be on. Still. > Sunday. Four. The lamp. Still.