Rather Suspect

The de-cluttering starts straightaway, everything put in its place. I walk through the neighborhood to get my morning coffee and my mind tells me: this is a crosswalk. This is a stop sign. That is the sidewalk. That is the curb.

It keeps going, with each moment collecting more-and-more. That is a tree. Those are leaves. Those leaves are red-orange today. Autumn.

This is a car, a car parked in a driveway. The driveway is on a slope, the slope is needed for the house to function. This is a house, those are windows. That type of window is called a Bay window.

And on. And on. And on. The machinery whirrs and it’s good that it does I suppose. But how much clutter is enough clutter? How many more things must my mind learn, sort, categorize — into how many groups, how many slots, how many places?

But when I feel your fingertips on mine I do not think: those are fingertips. That is a hand. That is skin.

I think only: the stars above are here for us, and always will be.