I don't understand it, she said. There are jobs here; there are airplanes.
There was reticence, like the film in seventh-grade science of the glass of milk, the drop coming from above. Slow motion.
The wondering! What would the drop do? What would it displace? There would be ripples. Would there also be tumbling over the side? Would there be momentum? Could it be said that inevitability had any part to play?
In the theater of autumn, most birds are not finding the feeder. There is a ribbon on it now, but the miscellaneous small brown birds still peck at the bark of the dead tree it hangs from.
Fine, she thinks. Let them starve.
The cats, lean with old resentments, patrol below.
I am letting things happen again. No one knows this, because I am the man -- because I am the one to whom it historically falls to Get Things Done. But let me tell you: Everything works out eventually. And let me tell you this: I did not mean for anything to die.
When I am overwhelmed by circumstance, I let things go. I start letting. There is blood on a regular basis. She covers it up, pretends it isn't there. You can't pretend things aren't there that are. You have to let things happen. So I let them.
I feel I am not entirely understood. I don't like to force things. So I am quiet. If it dies, it dies. Then who's to say it was ever alive?