September Rain

The rain began with no drama. One minute the street was merely dark; the next it was threaded with silver.

I made tea badly, which is to say I forgot it until it had become too strong and then added too much milk. The cup steamed anyway. Some comforts forgive their own mishandling.

Across the road, a window went bright and then dark again. For a moment it felt as if the building had blinked.

The whole evening narrowed to a few reliable things: water on glass, the warm circle of the lamp, the book I kept opening but not reading. I do not know why that was enough. I am trying to notice when enough arrives quietly.