mass in the mudroom

The ritual of coming inside from the cold.

 

We unzip the outer jacket- it’s like a prayer. The ratcheting sound tickling my ear drums, the slide-click-slide-click reveal between finger and thumb. To feel the rush of warmth escaping, like some secret flock of doves taking to the air. 

 

This overcoat, this shell person, and its patient hanger waiting. Smooth feel of wood, sleek metal hook. Made so exactly for what it does. How perfectly it rests on that round bar, how it sits! See how these things sit. They are not nothing, these things, they so profoundly be.

 

Those angled corners of the hanger, that slide with such satisfaction into the arms. Just the right balance. I adjust the collar, like I am tucking it into bed, hanging up the robe, the costume, the piece that makes the play. And the clink as hook meets bar, how neatly it sits with all the other characters, waiting their turn. The right weather, the right activity. Alert, ready.

 

This doffing is like a mass, the turning, bending, grasping, placing.

 

All these resting things, all of them. 

 

The kettle, the lamp, the scissors in the jar. The faucet, the railing, and oh the shoes (who become feet with simple lacing).

 

Oh these humble objects, see them radiate beneficence. See them lean in as they wait.