softness
— the gentle art of yielding without breaking, the tender strength found in things that never need to be harsh
today, the house woke before i did.
i heard three small creaks from the hallway just after dawn, as though someone had tiptoed past my door. i waited beneath my quilt, listening carefully.
nothing.
when i finally opened the door, i found a little trail of pine needles scattered across the floorboards. they led all the way from the front door to the kitchen, though i had not opened the door since yesterday evening.
i swept them into a tiny pile and placed them in a teacup on the windowsill. perhaps the forest wanted to come inside for tea.
the morning was hazy and diffuse, the trees looked as though they had been painted with a very pale brush. i made myself a cup of chamomile and sat beside the kitchen window, watching droplets gather on the glass. they slipped slowly downward, joining one another until they became little silver rivers.
i then opened all the curtains and let the weak sunlight wander through the rooms. it found the dusty piano first, then the little collection of buttons i keep in a porcelain bowl, and finally the lace curtain in the living room.
i spent nearly an hour by the window, mending it. it had torn sometime during the night.
sunlight slipped through the trees and rested on my hands, warm and golden. for a moment, i could almost feel it.
a small moth came fluttering through the only open window. she flew lazily around the room before settling on my sleeve, her wings folded together like two little pieces of parchment. i stayed perfectly still so she wouldn't leave.
she remained there for such a long time that i began to wonder if she knew me.
there are many things in this house that seem to remember me, even when i cannot remember myself.
tonight, i'm going to light the little lamp beside my bed, open the window just a crack, and leave a little saucer of milk beside the fireplace.
every morning, the saucer is empty.
and every morning, there are tiny pawprints in the dust.