Reading The Blue Clerk, 166

 “Verso 53”

It has been a year. Longer than that. And I have been inhabiting other silences.

Most days, the clerk herself is quiet.

Initially, I had said I did not want to complete this task. Task? To read until the end. Because then a certain structure of time would be lost. Deferral turned into delay, delay into quiet, quiet into silence.

He didn’t even look at her; he went on with his life where she had left off and where she could not imagine.

The grace to leave to the unimaginable. Something goes on. In our stillness. Or after we have reached where we can, and we wave to others to push on. Not receiving word of their arrivals or leavings, we make the farewell places sacred, and return there hoping the choreography of the wave will return something.

When she arrived on the bank of the Chao Phraya River, the author found everything as she had imagined.

I return to fulfill a vow. To find what lingers, the scent of remnant, the feel of yesterday, the sound of a thousand migrating birds.

The rains failed. The seeds I had scattered, waiting for the kindness of the rains, failed to sprout. Except one. I marvel at that one seed. And the flower is all the more precious.

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