Twenty minutes — not a transcript

I am writing this because the hall keeps a shorter version of twenty minutes — not a transcript than the one I lived through. If you only heard it at the table after bread, you might think nothing happened. Something did.

Nothing here is a shop. Not the jars, not the apples, not the boats, not my time. Ask with your name on the day you mean it.

I will not reply to every thank-you. I will notice if the kettle is on the cellar stair again.

If it is not in Sara's note, it was on the step.

Train was late. Bus was not. I still made Friday. Thin and true beats a calendar of maybes.

No drama intended.

Writing so Saturday does not become detective work.

I was not there for the whole evening, but I was there for the part where someone moved the map and Elise made the face she makes when the map is not folded. That is enough context for me.

No drama intended.

If it is not in Sara's note, it was on the step.

My boots are on the step. Green pair. If they are in your way, move them one metre, not into the long room.

No drama intended.

I tied it back. Same cleat I found.

I was not there for the whole evening, but I was there for the part where someone moved the map and Elise made the face she makes when the map is not folded. That is enough context for me.

That is all I have.