New Grass

“I went on.”

Samuel Beckett, Molloy

I WALK MOST DAYS because the days allow it. I wake early, not with urgency but with the sense that the body has already begun without consulting me. The room is pale. Quiet enough to hold. I lie still until the ache in my calves makes itself known. When I stand the floor is cool. Clothes are chosen in an order I do not think of as order. I put on what is there.

The ache did not begin this morning. It came from elsewhere, from repetition rather than injury, from a stairwell I no longer use but still carry. One hundred and thirty-seven steps. I counted them once and then never stopped knowing the number. First the calves then the ankles.

Over time the muscle learned to shorten itself, to work around what it could not undo. Most days it stayed quiet. Some days it felt wrong. It spoke only before movement took over and returned the body to usefulness. That’s Apatheia. It keeps things even.

Outside the street holds its shape. It does this because it has been told to. The drains along the curb are clear enough to pass inspection, though leaves collect at their mouths and stay. I breathe through my nose because that is how it comes. The body makes small adjustments. Ankles warm. Shoulders settle. The breath finds a pace and does not ask permission. I count without counting. The count arrives before I am ready and remains longer than expected. I do not stop when it comes. Stopping makes things louder.

At the corner a shop is already lit. Fluorescent light leaks onto the sidewalk through a door that opens and closes too often to stay clean. A man stands just outside, close enough to borrow warmth, far enough not to be moved along. He has arranged himself there. A cup rests near his foot. It is light.

“Spare change?” he says. He does not look up. The words are worn smooth. I slow without stopping. Coins appear in my hand. I do not remember taking them out. They fall into the cup and make the sound they are meant to make. The man nods once. Not gratitude. Completion. “Thanks,” he says.

The door opens behind us and closes again. I do not turn. I adjust my pace and go on. Nothing had changed. Everything was different.

Farther down umbrellas lift outside a place that sells food. Metal ribs click into place. The smell of oil drifts and thins. I cross at the light even though I am not entirely sure what it was. I stand with my hands in my pockets and inventory what remain. Keys, paper, the knife. When the signal changes I go. The count arrives and goes on. It arrives again too soon, then corrects itself, which I accept.

The grocery store is brighter than the street. The doors open with a soft breath. The air is cool and smells faintly of citrus and bread. I take a basket because my hands prefer it. I move down the aisles without hurry. Standing. The basket hanging. The same distance between shelves.

I read labels without reading them. The count keeps pace, steady, unattached. Apples are stacked carefully as if someone cared. I lift one, turn it, put it back. I choose bread I will not eat yet. The basket grows heavier. My grip adjusts.

A child sits in a cart. Legs swinging. I turn before I know I have turned. The woman pushing the cart stands close to the handle, correcting its drift. Her hair is already coming undone. She wipes the child’s mouth with her thumb. The child protests, then leans into it. She speaks without looking up, a low sound meant to settle. I do not think her name. The thought does not complete. There is a tightening behind my eyes that does not become pain. Recognition without claim. Containment noticed too late.

They move on toward the dairy. I stand where I am until the space they occupied returns to being only space. The basket hangs from my hand. The count continues.

At the register I am asked if I want a bag. I say yes. The total is given. It is wrong. I do not say anything. I pay. I am told to have a good day. I repeat it back. The receipt curls. I fold it once, then again, until the edge aligns with itself, and put it in my pocket.

Outside the air feels warmer. I walk home with the bread under my arm and place it on the counter. I do not eat it. I wash my hands and stand with them resting on the sink until the feeling in my fingers changes.

I walk again later. The day has lifted itself by then. The park opens gradually. Gravel gives way to dirt. The path curves, slowing the body without asking. I follow it. The bee garden sits back from the main path. Low hedges. Pale flowers. Glass-sided hives like windows that do not need to be looked through. I stand at a distance and watch.

The bees move in small arcs, returning, departing, never colliding. One brushes another and both correct. The sound is low and even. I count it until it loses its edges. Work I think. The word fits. I rest my hand on the rail. The wood vibrates faintly. Warmth travels into my palm. I lift my hand and set it down again. The warmth remains.

A sign explains things I already know. Later stage colony. Reduced activity. Preservation over expansion. I do not read to the end. A child’s voice drifts in and then away. I do not turn. I leave because standing too long makes the body restless.

On the way out, a man nods. I nod back. We do not slow. A bus comes and goes. I do not get on. A poster promises coverage everywhere. I do not test it.

The day divides itself into sections. I eat. I drink. I walk.

In the afternoon I take a longer loop. Office buildings remain where they have always been. A fence has been repaired. The path through the trees is narrower than I remember. Leaves gather there and stay.

As I walk, a sentence arrives without a speaker.

He wanted to say, stay, don’t go, don’t let it harden into this shape, the water still throwing itself, always throwing.

The sentence does not ask to be finished. It passes through me like weather. Louder if I stop. I do not stop.

I go home and sleep without meaning to.

When I wake the room has not changed much. The air feels heavier. I sit on the edge of the bed until waking catches up. I stand. Dress. The count resumes.

The chestnut tree is not in the park. It stands beyond the part of the city that pretends to be finished. The path to it is narrower than before. Leaves gather and stay. The tree stands. Thick-trunked. Unconcerned. I circle it once. The bark is rougher than I remember. Or perhaps I have not touched it like this before.

Marks cover the surface—initials, dates, shallow scars softened by time. Some careful. Some angry. Most barely legible. I face the trunk and breathe evenly. The count does not settle. It waits.

The knife is in my pocket. The metal is cool and solid. I press the blade into the bark. Resistance gives gradually. The sound is quiet. I carve slowly. Each letter requires its own pressure, its own correction. The count does not allow stopping. Someone passes behind me and does not stop. He was supposed to stop.

When I finish I step back. The name sits there plainly. Not large. Not hidden. Not triumphant. Incomplete but accurate. Sap gathers at the edges, already beginning its work. It moves the way the bees moved.

I close the knife and return it to my pocket. I rest my forehead briefly against the tree and straighten. There is residue on my skin. I don’t wipe it away.

On the way back, I see the same man again, even though I do not look for him. The sentence does not return. The count continues. I walk until the light thins and the day accepts being finished. The street still holds its shape.

At home I eat the bread. I wash the knife and dry it carefully. I place it where it belongs. I lie down. Sleep comes.

When I wake the room is pale and quiet. The day waits. The day waits the way a surface waits. I stand and go out.