The Shadow the Cord Makes in October

Early October. The alarm went off and I lay there for a moment deciding whether the cold air outside the duvet was worth it, and then I got up anyway, which is how most mornings work. Coffee. Kitchen. The windowsill.

The cord's shadow was doing something I hadn't seen it do before, longer than it gets in summer, thinner, stretched across the sill toward the letterpress card. The card was in shadow. The first photograph had a strip of light across the top edge. Carol's small object was entirely lit. I stood there with both hands around my mug for longer than I'd meant to, watching the light move the way you watch something you know is moving but can't quite catch in the act.

Simone came by this morning, which happens on the occasional Saturday when neither of us has anywhere to be yet. She was heading to the east side later and stopped in first. I'd been trying to describe the cord's shadow to her for about forty-five seconds when she just walked over and looked at it herself.

the cord's shadow, October

That's the right response, actually. Some things don't need an intermediary sentence.

I don't have an announcement. No new class registered, no tab opened and closed, no decision about the prints leaning against the kitchen wall. The prints are still leaning. The cord is still on the sill. The shadow moves a few inches east between now and noon, and then the light changes and the whole thing is over until tomorrow. That feels like enough for an October Saturday. More than enough, honestly.

she stopped to look at it too