I wake before my alarm.
Light leaks around the shade.
The house is quiet.
The sink drips.
Tick.
Tick.
I watch the drip like it is a show.
I count.
One.
Two.
Three.
It skips a beat.
I start again.

The tiles are cool under my feet.
I place my left foot on the crack I know.
A tiny line.
A hair of stone.
I place my right foot beside it.
I have done this every morning for years.
At least, I think I have.
I am not sure.
It feels true.
Maybe that is enough.

I open the cupboard.
The cups hang by their handles.
White cups, plain, with a chip on one.
The chip looks like a small tooth.
I always think that.
Or I think I always think that.
Memory is a tricky thing.
It slides like a plate in soapy hands.
You almost have it.
Then it slips.

I take the chipped cup.
I turn it in my hand.
I fill it with hot water from the kettle.
Steam rises.
I put a tea bag in.
It sinks.
It floats.
It leaves a cloud.
This is a normal thing.
It is not special.
But I feel like it is.
I feel like it matters.

The kitchen window faces the street.
There is a maple tree out front.
It wears a green coat in summer.
It wears a fire coat in fall.
Today it is half and half, like ice cream.
I try to remember last year’s colors.
Were they brighter?
Were they duller?
I see the picture in my mind.
Then it blurs.
I frown.
I blink.
I sip my tea, which is still too hot.

The calendar on the wall has big squares.
The squares have words in my neat hand.
“Dentist.”
“Trash day.”
“Call Aunt Min.”
I like to write things down.
It makes time feel boxed.
It makes days feel tame.
Still, the boxes smear sometimes.
The pen lines leak into each other in my head.
I ask myself, Did I write that?
I must have.
But I do not remember the moment I did.

I go to the living room.
The couch is a gentle brown.
It sags where I sit.
It knows me.
The clock on the shelf is gold.
It ticks like a tiny hammer.
There is a bowl of buttons on the table.
Mother gave me that bowl.
At least, I think she did.
Maybe I found it at a yard sale.
Or on a curb.
I feel a little dizzy.
I sit down.

The air smells like toast from next door.
Mrs. Crane is always up early.
She has a bird feeder shaped like a house.
It is painted blue.
I remember painting a bird feeder once.
But did I paint it with her, or with a friend, or alone?
I can see the brush in my hand.
I can see the paint, thick and bright.
I can see my thumb streaked with blue like a river.
But I cannot place the day.
Was it a weekday?
A Sunday?
A year ago?
Five?

I tell myself it does not matter.
Then I worry that it does.
I worry that small facts keep all the big facts in place.
Like pebbles under a wall.
If the pebbles slip, the wall leans.
If the wall leans, the roof creaks.
If the roof creaks, the rain gets in.

I pick up a book.
It is a small book of big words.
I do not read it much.
I like the feel of the pages.
They are thin and crackle like dry leaves.
There is a note tucked inside.
“Buy milk.”
I must have written it.
Or someone wrote it for me.
I hold it up to the light and see the faint grooves.
My pen presses hard.
Yes.
It is mine.

I put the book back.
I take a breath.
I let the ordinary pull me in.
I let the little be big.
The way the rug corner curls.
The way the light makes a square on the floor.
The way a fly draws a figure eight in the air.
I say, Look.
Look at how a day can be a whole world.
Look at how a crumb can be a mountain.

I pick up the crumb.
I roll it between my fingers.
It becomes dust.
It is gone.
But I still feel it there, stuck to me.
Like when you walk through a web and keep wiping your face.

My phone buzzes.
A text.
“Love you,” it says.
It’s from my sister.
Does she text that every morning?
I think she does.
I check.
Yesterday: “Love you.”
The day before: “Love you.”
I scroll and scroll.
I see many days.
“Love you,” like a steady drum.
But on one day, there is no text.
Just blank.
Why no text that day?
What day is that?
The number looks wrong.
Did I delete it?
Did she forget?
My chest grows tight.
It is such a small thing.
But it pulls at me like a sinkhole.

I make toast.
I spread butter.
I watch the butter melt into small lakes.
I watch the shine fade as it soaks in.
I listen to a truck outside.
It rattles, then it is gone.
I chew.
I swallow.
I try to anchor to the acts.
Each one like a nail tapped in.

There is a jar of nails in the hall.
It sits on a shelf.
The lid is metal, with rust like freckles.
I remember buying that jar at a hardware store with my father.
The man at the counter called me “buddy.”
He had a pen behind his ear.
My father laughed and said I was small but could carry big things.
But did that happen?
Or did I dream it?
Maybe the jar came from a different store.
Maybe I went alone.
The picture slides.
The edges go soft.
I feel a little lost.
I hate that feeling.

I step into the hall and stand in front of the jar.
I look at it until it stops being a jar and becomes lines and color.
A circle.
A dull shine.
A label with a tear.
I think, If I can see it well enough, I will hold it in my head.
If I hold it hard enough, I will not drop it.
I repeat to myself, Label torn at top.
Rust on lid like freckles.
Three quarters full.
Short nails.
Not shiny.
I say it again.
And again.
I say it until the words feel thin.

The day goes on.
I clean.
I dust.
I sort the spoons by size.
I line the books by height.
I wipe the stove again.
I open drawers and close them.
I check the fridge.
I check it again.
I write a list.
Bread.
Eggs.
Soap.
String.
I do not need string.
The idea just comes.
Maybe if I write it, I will know I wrote it, and later I will feel sure, and that will be like rest.

I carry a small notebook in my pocket.
It has a soft cover and bends with me.
I write down the things I do.
“Washed pan.”
“Trimmed a thread.”
“Moved lamp two inches left.”
I draw a little map of the table with all the cups and books on it.
I label each one.
Cup A.
Cup B.
Book 1.
Button bowl.
This helps.
It is like tying a string from the thing to me.

At noon I go out.
I lock the door.
I pull it once.
Twice.
Three times.
I say, Locked.
I say it out loud.
“Locked.”
A neighbor walks by with a dog and waves.
I wave back.
“Nice day,” she says.
“Yes,” I say.
I look up at the sky to prove it to myself.

At the store, the lights hum.
The floor shines.
Cans line the walls like soldiers.
I move through the aisles slow.
I read each label.
“Tomato Soup.”
“Chicken Noodle.”
I do not like soup.
I put a can in my basket anyway.
Maybe I used to like it.
I try to remember.
The memory throws light and then turns its back.
I put the can back and stand still.
People go around me.
I feel their air on my arm.
I feel very alone and very full of names.

I buy bread and eggs and soap.
I forget the string.
I stand outside with my bag and feel a small stab.
I do not need string.
But I wanted to remember string and I did not.
I stare at a crack in the sidewalk.
A line of ants walks around it like a river bend.
I follow them with my eyes until my breath slows.

On my way home, I pass the school.
Children shout.
A ball bounces.
A teacher blows a whistle that sounds like a bird.
I smell warm rubber.
I remember my school.
I remember a chalk board.
I remember the smell of erasers clapped clean.
I remember a friend named Kay.
Or maybe it was May.
She had a red backpack with a patch of a cat.
Or a dog.
It could be a dog.
I feel a pang of shame.
How can I not know?
How can I have lived a life and not hold it still?

A child’s laugh shakes me out of it.
A skateboard rattles by, wheels clacking over the seams in the walk.
I turn.
I keep going.

Back at home, I unlock the door.
I step inside.
I place the bread on the counter.
The counter is empty.
I did not think it would be empty.
I did not leave it this way.
I know that.
I feel it.
But my notebook shows it.
I open the notebook and see my map.
Cup A.
Cup B.
Book 1.
Button bowl.
All on the kitchen table.
But the table is bare.

I stand and listen.
No one is here.
The house is quiet except for the fridge hum.
I cross the room.
I look under the table.
Nothing.
I look in the sink.
Nothing.
I look at the shelf by the window.
There is the bowl of buttons.
There is Book 1.
There are the two cups.
They are in a new place.
I did not put them there.
Did I put them there?
Did I, and did I forget?
I touch the cups.
They are warm.
But everything in this room can be warm.

I pick up Cup A.
I put it back on the table.
I put it in the place drawn on the map.
I do the same with Cup B.
I set Book 1 where it was.
I hold the button bowl.
It rattles like a tiny rain.
I place it down and the sound stops.

I keep my hand on the bowl and breathe.
My mind tells me two stories.
One: Someone moved these things.
Two: I moved these things and forgot.
I do not know which is true.
The not knowing pricks like pins.

I walk room to room.
Things seem normal.
But now I doubt the word “normal.”
The word feels like thin ice.
I touch the jar of nails.
Rust like freckles.
Label torn at top.
Three quarters full.
Short nails.
Not shiny.
I say it again, like a spell.

I get my roll of tape and my marker.
I label the shelf.
“Button Bowl Here.”
I label the table.
“Cups Here.”
I label the jar of nails.
“Nails Here.”
I stick small arrows all over, like tiny signs.
It looks silly.
But it calms me.
It makes the world tell me where to put it.

I take photos with my phone.
I make an album called “House Today.”
I take a picture of the door.
I take a picture of the rug.
I take a picture of the wall clock at 2:13.
I hold the phone to my chest.
Pictures are hard proof.
Pictures do not lie.
People lie.
Memory lies.
Pictures do not.

Then I remember a picture of my father’s old truck.
It was blue.
We all knew it was blue.
Then we saw a picture and the truck looked green.
We argued at the table for an hour.
The light was odd in the photo.
It turned the blue to green.
My mother laughed and said, “Even pictures fib, in their way.”
She put butter on her bread and said, “Eat before it gets cold.”
I felt small and found.

The oven timer beeps because I set it to test myself.
I did not forget.
I get up and turn it off.
I write “Turned off timer” in my notebook.
I draw a smiley face.
I feel halfway saved.

Time puddles.
Afternoon gets soft.
I sit on the floor and go through boxes.
Old postcards.
Ticket stubs.
Dried flowers pressed like shadows.
Receipts.
A tiny beach shell with a crack.
I hold each thing.
I try to tie it to a day.
The string slips.
The knot loosens.
I wish I had named each thing when it was born.

I find a photo of me as a child in a red raincoat.
I am holding a paper boat in a puddle.
There is a woman’s hand at the edge of the frame.
She is pointing.
Is it my mother?
The hand wears no ring.
My mother wore a ring.
Did she take it off that day?
Did I have an aunt there?
Did a neighbor point?
I stare so hard my eyes ache.
The hand stays a hand, and no story comes.

I feel heat rise in my neck.
My heart beats faster.
I put the photo down.
I pick it up again.
I want the world to be fixed.
I want the names of things to stay.
I want today to stack on yesterday like blocks that do not wobble.
I close my eyes and count.
One to ten.
Then to twenty.
I breathe like the doctor showed me.
In on four.
Hold for two.
Out on six.
Inside my head a small voice says, You are fine.
A bigger voice says, Prove it.

I go to the kitchen.
I open the fridge and point my phone like a scanner.
Milk on top.
Eggs on second shelf.
Butter in the door.
Pickles on the left.
I take a picture.
I label it: “Fridge 3:02.”
I do the same with the drawers.
“Forks Here.”
“Spoons Here.”
I stick notes everywhere.
The house looks like a study guide for a test I fear.

The day bleeds into evening.
Warm light slides across the floor.
Shadows climb the wall like cats.
I stand at the window.
The maple wears more red by the hour.
Is that how trees work?
Do they redden in steps you can see?
Or is it only me?
I press my forehead to the glass.

Across the street, a man drags a bin to the curb.
He wipes his hands and looks up.
He sees me and nods.
I nod back.
He turns and goes inside.
I try to remember his name.
Pete?
Paul?
Pat?
I think it is something with a P.
I am not sure.
I feel the little pinch again, like a rubber band snapped on my wrist.

I eat dinner.
It is pasta with yellow sauce that comes from a jar.
I eat it, and I can taste it, and I try to hold the taste in my head.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to make it last.
It fades anyway.
I write “Pasta” in my notebook and draw another smile.

At night, I turn on a lamp in the bedroom.
The shade is white with a pattern like rain.
I fold my shirt and set it on the chair.
I place my shoes side by side.
Left.
Right.
I make the bed smooth.
I touch the top of the dresser and think, Dust tomorrow.
I write “Dust dresser” in my notebook.
I put the notebook on the nightstand.
I put the pen beside it, tip pointing out.
I want to wake and grab it in a second.

I turn off the lamp.
Dark lies down like a blanket.
I listen to the house.
Small creaks like knees.
A car far away.
A dog bark that sounds like a cough.
I close my eyes and try to remember a poem from school.
The first line comes.
The rest hides.
I fall asleep with that missing line like a stone in my shoe.

Morning again.
I wake before the alarm.
Light leaks around the shade.
The sink drips.
Tick.
Tick.
I watch.
I count.
One.
Two.
Three.
It skips.
I start again.

I go to the kitchen.
I look for the chipped cup.
It is not there.
I open the cupboard.
White cups hang by their handles.
Three cups, not four.
The chipped one is gone.
My stomach drops.
I did not break it.
I did not throw it away.
I would remember that.
Wouldn’t I?
Wouldn’t I?

I stand very still.
My ears fill with the sound of my own breath.
I open the trash.
Eggshells.
A brown bag.
No cup.
I look under the sink.
Soap.
Sponges.
No cup.
I look in the dishwasher.
Empty.
I feel the floor tilt.

I get my phone and pull up the album called “House Today.”
I swipe.
There is the table with Cup A and Cup B and Book 1 and the button bowl.
There is the cupboard with four white cups.
I zoom in.
Yes.
Four.
One has a chip like a small tooth.
I took the picture.
I named the album.
I did this.
I know what I did.

I search the house.
Top to bottom.
I pull open drawers.
I open closets.
I peer behind books.
I look inside pots.
I look in the laundry basket.
No cup.
No cup.
No cup.

My hands shake.
I sit on the floor.
I try to breathe slow.
I try to imagine the cup turning to smoke and floating out the window.
That thought helps for a second.
Then it does not.
I press my palms to my eyes until little fireworks pop and dance.

I go to the calendar.
Today says “Call Aunt Min.”
I dial.
The phone rings and rings.
Then her soft voice fills the line.
I close my eyes.
“Did you ever give me a bowl of buttons?” I ask.
She laughs.
“You and your funny questions,” she says.
“Did I?” I say.
“I think so,” she says, and then she pauses.
“Or did your mother?”
She hums.
“Oh, I can’t keep track of such things.”
She tells me the weather by her house.
She tells me about a cat that watches birds but never meows.
She does not know about the cup.
No one knows about the cup.
I hang up and stare at the wall.

I make tea in a different cup.
The tea bag sinks.
It floats.
It leaves a cloud.
I take a sip and set the cup down.
I move it an inch to the left.
I move it an inch to the right.
I take a picture.
I label it “Tea 8:23.”
I put the phone face down.
I pick it up.
I look again to make sure I took the picture.
I did.
I breathe.

At noon, the mail comes.
A flyer for a sale.
A letter about the power bill.
A card with flowers on the front.
No return address.
No stamp mark.
Just the card.
I open it.
Inside, in my own neat hand, it says, “Love you.”
My fingers go cold.
I look at the envelope.
My name is written there in the same hand.
My hand.
I look for the seam of a joke.
I find none.
I look for the person behind the curtain.
There is just me, and me, and me.

I drop the card.
I go to the sink and stare at the drip.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
It keeps time I cannot trust.
I turn the faucet hard.
The drip stops.
The sudden silence is a roar.

The rest of the day frays.
I put the photo of the red raincoat on the table.
I put the picture of the cupboard with four cups next to it.
I put the card that says “Love you” on top.
I lay out my notes in neat rows.
“Washed pan.”
“Trimmed a thread.”
“Turned off timer.”
My own words look like a person I do not know.
A neat, careful person.
A person who is not me.

I open the drawer where I keep tape and markers and scissors.
I take everything out and line it up.
I tell myself, We will make order.
We will build a raft from small sticks.
We will not drown.

I label more shelves.
I label the back of chairs.
I label the plant: “Plant.”
I label the window: “Window.”
I label my notebook: “Notebook.”
I label the marker: “Marker.”
The house turns into a museum with tags.
I put ropes in my mind around everything.
Do not touch.
Please do not move.

I take more pictures.
I fill the album until the phone warns me about space.
I delete old pictures.
A birthday.
A park.
A woman with a yellow scarf whose name I cannot catch.
I press the trash can icon.
Gone.
I hope I will not need them.
I tell myself I am lighter now.
I do not feel light.

It is late when I hear a noise.
A tiny tap.
A gentle slide.
I turn.
On the kitchen table, Cup B has moved.
It is not by my hand.
The label by its old place looks like a sad face.
I walk to the table very slow.
I look at the cup.
I look at the map in my notebook.
I look at the label.
I feel a cold like the inside of the freezer.

Maybe the house is not wrong.
Maybe I am wrong.
Maybe I do this in my sleep.
Maybe I do this in my waking and then forget.
The maybe grows teeth.
It bites.

I pick up Cup B.
I put it back in its spot.
I press it down a little like I am planting it in soil.
I step back.
I wait.
I watch.
Nothing happens.
I laugh.
My laugh sounds like a cough.

I turn and see the bowl of buttons tilt.
A button slides to the rim and stops there, like an eye.
I step forward and fix it.
My hands shake.
Another button leaps.
No, it does not leap.
It rolls because the bowl is not on a flat place.
But I felt a leap.
I felt the spring of a thing that chooses.

I push the bowl into the center of the table.
I press it down too.
My palms pick up the cool.

A picture falls from the fridge.
The magnet with the dog on it clinks to the floor.
The picture is the one with the red raincoat.
It lies face up, and the hand that points looks like it is pointing at me now.
My head goes loud.
I pick up the magnet and stick it back on.
I put the picture back.
I step away.
It falls again.
Something in me yawns wide and dark.

I open a drawer and take out the scissors.
I hold them.
They feel heavy and simple.
Open, close.
Open, close.
I set them down.
I take out a roll of tape, clear and slick.
I take out a marker.
I take out the label maker I bought once for fun and now use like a crutch.
I lay them in a row.

I open the photo album I keep on the top shelf.
It has a brown cover and a tear on the edge.
I lift the plastic and peel back a page.
The first photo is of a lake.
The water is flat like glass.
A small boy stands at the edge with a stick.
He could be me.
He could be anyone.
The next photo is of a cake with five candles.
The frosting sags.
A woman’s hands hold the plate.
No face, just hands.
Hands that could be my mother’s.
Hands that could be a stranger’s.

I take the scissors.
I cut the cake picture into halves, then quarters, then eighths, cutting the hands out first.
I listen to the crisp sound.
I cut the lake picture next.
I cut the boy in two.
I cut the stick.
I cut the water.
I cut until the pieces are small as snow.
They fall over my lap.
They look like a white storm.

I do not stop.
I cut the picture with the truck.
Blue or green, I do not care.
I cut it all the same way.
I cut the red raincoat.
I cut the pointing hand.
I cut until the pile of paper on the floor looks deep and soft.
I scoop it in my arms and carry it to the sink.
I pour it in and turn on the tap.
The bits darken and clump.
They stick to the metal and to each other.
They are nothing now.
They are wet and blank.

I go for the drawers.
I take out old notes.
“Buy milk.”
“Love you.”
I tear them.
I tear the corners.
I tear across my own letters.
I crumple them.
I shove them in a bag.
I move like I am running a race that no one sees.

I feel a heat in my cheeks and a cold in my hands.
I speak out loud.
“You are not true,” I say.
“You keep changing.”
“You keep slipping.”
I am talking to the house.
I am talking to time.
I am talking to paper.
I am talking to myself.

I go to the hallway shelf.
I pick up the jar of nails and rip the label off.
I throw the label in the sink.
I pour the nails out onto the floor.
They scatter like silver rain.
I kick them under the shelf.
I want no tidy rows.
I want no fake proof.
I want to be free of every weak string that snaps in my hand.

I take the label maker and feed out a long tongue of tape.
I print “NOTHING.”
I stick it on the wall.
I print “STAY.”
I stick it on the door.
I print “REAL.”
I stick it on my own chest.
It looks dumb.
I do not care.
I tear it off and throw it.
The sticky back catches on my sleeve like a small, needy ghost.

I pull books from the shelves.
I shake them and watch old slips fall out.
Receipts.
Dry leaves.
Little truths that do not feel true now.
Everything rattles inside me.
I am a jar someone is shaking and shaking.

The couch cushions hit the floor.
I rip the calendar down.
The boxes tear.
“Dentist” rips in half.
“Trash day” splits.
“Aunt Min” becomes “Aunt” and “Min” on two different days.
I laugh and then I choke on the laugh.
I tear the pages one by one.
Months drop like leaves.
I tear until I hold only the cardboard back.

I open the drawer of forks and fling them into the sink.
They clatter and slide and one dings the side and I feel that in my teeth.
I pour the button bowl onto the table and sweep the buttons into a bag.
They clink like rain on a tin roof.
I tie the bag and throw it in a closet.
I slam the door.

I go to the fridge and take down all the pictures and magnets and coupons.
I strip it bare.
I put the pictures on the counter and stack them.
I tear the stack in halves.
I tear the halves into halves.
I shove them into the trash and press down hard with my fists.

The sink is full of wet paper.
The disposal waits like a mouth.
I flick the switch.
The sound growls low.
I feed the paper in, handful by handful.
The house shakes with the noise.
Water runs.
Paper turns to mush.
The growl takes it.
It is a small thing to do.
It feels like breaking a dam.

I stop only when the sink is empty, and bits cling like fish scales on the sides.
I wash them down.
The water swirls and sucks and is gone.
I turn off the tap.
I stand and listen to the new quiet.
It is not quiet.
My breath saws.
My heart thuds.
A car door slams outside.
The fridge clicks.
Light hums.

I look at my phone.
The album called “House Today” is open.
I scroll and see the pictures I took.
Table.
Cups.
Labels.
Labels everywhere, like flags in a soil of fear.
My thumb hovers over the trash can.
I press it.
“Delete Album?” the screen asks.
“Yes,” I say, out loud.
I press Yes.
It asks, “Delete 146 items?”
“Yes,” I say.
I press Yes.
The photos are gone.
They are gone like breath on a mirror.

I move through the rooms, and the labels look dumb now.
“Cups Here.”
There are no cups there.
“Button Bowl Here.”
The bowl is gone.
“Nails Here.”
Nails are everywhere.
I start to peel the labels off.
They tear and leave gummy ghosts.
I scrape them with my nail.
My nail dulls.
I keep scraping.
I keep scraping until my finger hurts.

The doorbell rings.
I freeze.
It rings again.
“Hello?” a voice calls.
It is the neighbor with the dog.
“Everything okay?” she asks through the wood.
I do not move.
I do not speak.
My throat is tight and hot.
I look around at the wreck I made.
It looks like a storm lives here.

She knocks once.
She waits.
She goes away.
I stand and listen to her steps fade.
The dog’s collar jingles.
I put my hand flat on the door where her knock was.
The wood feels cool, like skin that does not know me.

I turn and face the kitchen.
I feel something strange.
Light.
A little wind in my head.
I think it is relief.
My shoulders drop.
I can move my neck.
I stand taller.
I feel empty like a room after a party.
The ordinary things that charmed me have been broken.
The spell is gone.
The spell is gone and I am still here.

I walk to the table and sit.
I place both hands palm down.
The grain of the wood runs under my skin.
I think of my sister’s texts.
“Love you.”
“Love you.”
“Love you.”
I did not cut those.
I still have those.
I open my phone and scroll.
The day with no text is still a blank.
It stays a blank.
I will let it be blank.
I will stop trying to paint in the missing square.
A puzzle can have a hole and still make a picture.

I pick up the chipped cup from where I put it, which is under the stove on the left, where I slid it in a haze last week after I saw the chip get bigger and felt scared, because it felt like it was dying, like a tooth that would fall out, and I did not want to watch it fade, so I hid it and forgot I hid it and made a map but not of that.
I hold it now.
I remember hiding it.
The memory comes like a shy cat.
It was the day I bought string.
I did buy string.
I smile.
It is small, but it is a stone I can stand on.

The cups rattle together as I set the chipped one back in the cupboard.
Three cups, and the fourth, the one with the small tooth.
I do not add a label.
I do not take a picture.
I just look.
I just stand there and look, and then I close the door.

The house is a mess.
Paper bits cling to the sink.
Nails fault the floor.
The calendar is in strips.
The fridge is bare.
Things will need cleaning.
Things will need time.
Things will need hands and rest.
I might cry.
I might sleep.
I might make a sandwich.
I do not know.
I am not going to name it yet.

I stand by the window and watch the maple.
It is redder than yesterday.
Or maybe I just see it better now.
A bird lands and tilts its head.
It flies away.
I do not try to hold its path in my mind.
I let it go.
I learn the feel of letting go.
It stings and then it soothes.
Like cold water on hot skin.

The sink drips again.
Tick.
Tick.
I go and turn the handle slow until the drip stops.
I wipe the rim with a towel.
I wring the towel out.
I hang it up.
I watch for a second.
No drip.
Good.
I do not write it down.
I do not pocket a note about it for later.
I pick up a stray nail and put it back in the jar.
I pick up another nail.
And another.
I do not count them.
I do not need to.
Not now.
Not for this minute, which is the size of a cup, and fits in my hand.