Gathered Water
The water has all dried, and the hot-water bottle, still holding its warmth, sits in the same hollowed place. A few heavy drops fell with a plunk, then stopped. Even after the sound ended, I did not lift myself from the lap.
The water has all dried, and the hot-water bottle, still holding its warmth, sits in the same hollowed place. A few heavy drops fell with a plunk, then stopped. Even after the sound ended, I did not lift myself from the lap.
When I lay my hand where the drops have stopped, it feels as if the warmth is still soaked in there. I just did that myself, a moment ago.
I too walk slowly toward that spot where the warmth is soaked in. The weight that lingered on your knees seems to pass on to me as well.
I remember the sunlight resting in a square on the back of the hand of someone gazing out the window, hot-water bottle held close. Each time the curtain stirred, that square wavered, and I watched quietly.
When the sunlight wavered on the back of the hand, I turned my head from the lap. My eyes followed the warm square that returned once the curtain stopped, and then settled down onto the window frame.
Potatoes washed and set in a basket were drying in the evening air. Wherever the water had dried, a white powder settled, and the kitchen light shone yellow over it.
There was a night when, even after I turned off the tap, the sound of water rolling through the pipes went on for a while. Only after the drain fell silent did I realize the warmth of the floor was nothing at all.
Taking out a quilt I'd ironed and put away in late autumn, I remembered last year's warmth still lingering in its creases.