More, Slowly

Jan in the chair (the slightly crooked beloved one), morning, lamp on (it's January — lamp is on early)

#01

The Lamp, Three

The lamp turned on at 6:58.

The book was the new one—bought at the Greenpoint bookstore on a Sunday, three Sundays ago, with August. The chair was the chair. The cat was the cat. The wall behind the desk had, this year, two framed things on it: the river-at-dusk photo and the card from Mom. The card is the card. The card has been on the wall for nine months. Don't, every day, look at it. See it every day. The seeing is the having-it. The lamp will turn off at 9:18 if I let it. The lamp will turn off at 8:42 if I forget to want it on. The lamp does the work.

Close-up of the chipped clay cup on the counter beside the new (Mom-bought) teapot, both steaming

#02

The Chipped Cup, Still

The cup is still the cup.

The chip is still the chip. There is, now, a second small chip on the base. The cup has been mine for two seasons and Mom's for one season and mine again since. The cup will, eventually, become a thing I can't really call a cup. The cup is, in the meantime, a cup. The teapot is the teapot. The tea is the tea. The morning is the morning. Some things—and I am, increasingly, willing to say this without irony—get more themselves the more they chip. The cup is the cup. The chip is two. The cup is mine.

#03

The Eleventh Pot

The windowsill two years ago had seven pots and Greg.

Last spring, eight. Late January: eleven. Have, despite my own February prediction, not run out of windowsill. The pots have gotten smaller. The shapes have gotten more uneven. The glazes have gotten weirder. The basil cutting — which I didn't, last spring, believe would root — has been growing for nine months. The eighth pot has a small plant in it. The eleventh pot is empty. The eleventh pot, like all the others, will eventually contain something. The windowsill is, now, an installation. The installation is by me.

Jan by the window in Sunday-at-four light, holding tea — Hair down with the soft cream headband

#04

Sunday at Four (Six)

Sunday at four is its own weather.

The first one was tired. The second was heavy. The third was settled. The fourth was lit. The fifth was home. This one—the sixth—has another person in it. August is on the couch reading. Isn't, technically, part of the Sunday-at-four. Is part of the apartment-on-this-particular-Sunday. Reading. Isn't, mid-reading, asking anything of me. Spent an hour in the same room without speaking. This is a thing I hadn't, three years ago, known I could do with anyone. The light is going. The tea is going. The Monday is in the next room. We are at four.

Jan at the kitchen counter, evening, a small text exchange open on her phone

#05

The Tuesday That Wasn't

The Tuesday in question was, for the first time in five months, not a Tuesday.

August was at the bookstore late. The Tuesday became a regular Tuesday, minus the Tuesday. Texted him got us. He'd texted me love you casually at five. Texted love you back without ceremony at five oh-one. The love you is, by now, a Tuesday thing. The love you has been a Tuesday thing for four months. The Tuesday will resume next week. Made the bowl of noodles standing at the counter. Ate them standing at the counter. The standing was a Tuesday. The Tuesday-without-Tuesday was also a Tuesday—just one with the door slightly open.

Jan at the kitchen table in the morning, the to a near-the-end page

#06

The Page, Today

The third notebook is, at the end of January, three-quarters full.

Written more this year than any prior. The pieces are small. The Substack ones. The notebook ones that will not become anything else. The smallness is not a phase. The smallness is the way I write. The smallness is, I can now say without flinching, the way I am made. Drink the tea. Write the sentence. Read it back. Don't, today, edit it. Leave it on the page where I found it.

Jan back at the bookstore — the same Greenpoint bookstore from Pack 26

#07

The Reading, Six Months Later

Read at the bookstore again in January.

Twelve people on a Wednesday. The first reading had twenty on a Thursday. This one was smaller, on a Wednesday, the way Wednesdays are. Read three pieces. Six months old. The audience let the silences land. August was in the back, reading along on a printout. Hadn't asked him to come — he asked if he could; I said yes; this, too, is a shape we have. The second time is less significant than the first. The second time is a Wednesday in a small bookstore on Manhattan Ave.

Jan on the couch in the evening, lamp on, phone to her ear — *not* on speaker, this is a call, not a voice note

#08

The Wednesday Voice Note (Still)

Mom called Wednesday.

A Wednesday thing now — her shop is quiet then, my apartment is quiet then. Talked for twenty-four minutes. Her sister's jasmine. The new tea she'd been sent. Henry reading yet (he is). The cardigan re-blocking (I said no. She said I'll send spray.). The soup — Tuesday, slightly less salt. The call ended the way it ends: eat well, take care, call me. I said love you. She said, in English, I love you too. She's been saying it in English first lately. The lamp on. The cat on the chair. The chipped cup beside me.

Jan at the kitchen table in early evening (lamp just-on, the windows outside the dark-blue January)

#09

What now used to be a frightening question.

Then a curious one. Then, last winter, this, for now. This Wednesday — six PM, late January — the answer is more, slowly. I am thirty-one. A Tuesday person. Eleven small pots, a basil plant rooted in the eighth. A card on the wall. A teapot on the counter. A mother who called and said love you in English first. A notebook in its third volume. The chipped cup. The cat in the chair. The more has come in slowly. The slowly is the only way I knew how to let it. The lamp is on. The room is being used. I am here.