Nine moments of being where you are five years in.
Late March 2031. Jan is 33, in the new (upstairs) apartment, the book published five weeks ago. Not arrived. Not done. Not different, exactly. As a continuing.
Lamp on at 6:58.
The book in my lap is, in fact, my book. Published five weeks ago. One review — two stars — called it "pretentious, pointlessly quiet, and weirdly obsessed with inanimate objects." Read it at 7:14 AM and it completely ruined my Tuesday. Cried out of sheer embarrassment. The lamp was the lamp, but the lamp couldn't protect me from the reality of being perceived. The chair was the chair. The cat on the arm. The book is mine. The book is out there.
Still the cup.
Three chips. The third arrived after the funeral on a morning I don't remember and has been with the cup sixteen months. The cup hasn't acquired a fourth. Seven months in the new kitchen, tea every morning. The cup is on its way to one day being a set of chips that used to be a cup. For now, it is a cup. The cup outlives the year that gave it the third.
Thirteen pots and Greg.
The thirteenth was thrown in late November, after the move, Ruth still attending Saturdays at 10. She said about it: "that one's the most you in a while." I hadn't known what she meant. Ruth's way of saying it is always something about the asymmetry — the most you is the most accidentally off-center. The south-facing light makes the honey glaze look different from how it looked in the studio. The basil cutting from Sarah is still alive in pot eight. The row is the row.
Sunday at four is its own weather.
The first was tired. The second was heavy. The third settled. The fourth lit. The fifth home. The sixth had another person in it. The seventh carried. The eighth was the first in the new apartment. The ninth was the first one after Mom said love you in English first. The tenth has August at the piano — not playing, just sitting, fingers on the keys without pressing, the way he does on a Sunday. The peace is the peace. The tenth one is recognizable. Recognizable is the goal.
Mom calls Wednesday.
Lin took her first steps, three of them, a Sunday in March. Henry had asked Mom on FaceTime whether she was the same height as me — he'd looked at us both on his iPad and couldn't tell. Mom laughs harder than usual. She tells me she'd been reading the book again. I read it once in the kitchen. I read it once in the chair. She says the chair piece was the right one to put first. I say thank you. She says the lamp dedication was right. The call ends at 8:14 PM. Eat well. Take care. Call me. I say love you. Mom says, in English, love you too.
Eleven blocks on a Thursday afternoon.
Same eleven blocks, six years. The bodega guy nods. The boba shop is closed (Thursday isn't Saturday). The dumpling shop is open and the son nods through the window. The bench at McGolrick Park is empty — it'll hold me on Saturday. Five years in, and the walk looks exactly like the walk.
The 52nd letter from Mira arrives Wednesday in late March.
Four pages. She'd taken three weeks after pub day to write it. Two lines I have to set the letter down to receive. The first: "the book is the book the chapbook was an excerpt of, the way you and August both knew." The second: "my father, if he were here, would have read the chair piece three times. He would not have said anything specific about it. He would have read it three times. That is, in our family, a thing." Read the letter twice. The second time, cried a small contained cry. Filed it at the top of the stack. The cream string re-tied. The exchange continues.
August plays piano for fourteen minutes at 9:42 PM on a Tuesday.
He doesn't practice — he sits at the piano and plays the small pieces that have been in his hands since he was eight, Schubert mostly, and then stops. Seven months of occasional quiet piano in the background of a Tuesday. The lamp on. The notebook open. Writing quietly, without trying. The music is something I can write to. Mim on the chair-arm, neutral-positive. August stops at minute fourteen. Reads what I'd been writing over my shoulder. He says "that line about the cup is good." I say thank you. He goes to make tea.
Six-PM Wednesday in late March.
The fifth notebook open. The lamp on. August across the table with his magazine. The cat on the chair. The apartment still small enough to fit me. The book on the shelf, the real one. The this is still small. The for now is still forever. The more came in. The slowly held. And still. Still small. The book is on the shelf. The lamp is on. The chair is the chair. The chipped cup has three chips. The card is on the wall. The grandfather's photo is on the wall. I am, after five years, still here.