Between Question and Thanks
Wherein abandon resolves a failing service...
Between Question and Thanks
In this house, a demure, liturgical thanks hangs in the air. How mistake hangs tongue. A world entirely the thanks own, almost lonely. Near question.
Released, question sprouts, grows. "Why did I say that," thanker seems to ask. Inflection defeating resolve, there's a look at the milk, in the mug on their desk. Fingers find the hole.
You might be wondering how things got here.
Service Tops
Arriving in this way, is the milk: someone readies to buy pet food (pet refuses food in the house). A question finds it's voice, from room, "will you get me milk?" Milk busies itself populating the list.
Minutes leave, late-year holiday weekend evens, floods six plus one lanes of traffic with people. Crosswalks - small children in beanies, people in sweaters, a couple already in gloves, lots of sneakers (most of athletic make), one in a crop top (like the last flower), someone in a brimmed leather hat, each a happy little g-d of a body they're left to tend.
Store reached, pet food and milk arrive in person, don a mask. Sliding doors (gentlemen ninjas) make passage. At checkout, need for bag is asked ('no' received), card is swiped (a request to read chip gently correcting), a need for receipt is asked (a 'no' opening departure).
Carrying Jug
More in crosswalks - someone in flip flops, one shouts from tank-sized single-occupant vehicle with 300mm lift kit a question for the pedestrians' favorite number (getting the number of a sportsplayer's jersey for answer) and wooping in replying, stadium, near, looms. Handful of spaces (for vehicles), stairs, door - arrival.
Pet makes noise, seeing food bag open, hand dispensing grip onto perch pet tends. Pet tucks in, tension resolved. A want surfaces, celebrating movement through air. "I want to fill a mug with milk and place it on the desk."
An appreciable beat finds an enthusiastic yes. It erupts from the one at the desk, on the device. Space cleared, mug arrives jug opens, milk pours, the jug is capped, finding a spot in the fridge and perfect size, as though home.
It isn't malicious, but something happens (the one at the desk says "thank you").
Homing Thanks
It is a demure, liturgical thanks. It hangs in the air. How mistakes hang the tongue, silent. A world entirely the thanks own. Almost lonely. It looks where to go, sitting in a silence.
Would you like to sit with this thanks? It'll likely be here for a while. Accompany it often as you like. this post is its home, carved out, a space the thanks may wait out reception, until welcome. Watch it flit about, find its way with question into affirmation. It's quite nice.
Endling Yes
Pass the time. Pretty.
Not soon, but in one breath of a kind, all the world is brought to dust, and star and cosmos too; And the last of revelance goes out, so the pause. So each question left open. Any thanks still seeking reception. What bits of the moment they hang on, collecting. Reality doubted, touted, and tried anew.
Into a single, resonant "am I a question," lonely questions decay. Thanks still out to be received - thirsty, distracted - reply, "Yes." And the whole thing goes around again. Pulse, field, atom, soil (to question) air (to tend). Recieving, noticing, speaking something between question and thanks .