Frosty Night

Memory of a frosty night— I’m sitting at my desk when the clock strikes midnight, time to sleep. Earlier I decided I would sleep at this hour no matter what I was doing. I shut my books and tidy my desk so I can start work again in the morning. “Tidy” is something of an exaggeration since all I do is stack my papers and books into a pile and extinguish the coals in the brazier by pouring water from the iron kettle into the bisque and picking up the coals one by one with the tongs and plopping them into the water where I watch them sizzle and blacken. I take pleasure in the sound of the coals hitting water, the sight of the flocculent steam, the dramatic transience of the ritual. Before settling in the bedroom next to my study I make a stealthy trip downstairs to empty my bladder without waking my family. Passing by the parlor, I notice that the light is on in the next room. Who could be up at this hour? Creeping up to the open door, I see my sixty-eight-year-old aunt on the floor stretching fine silk cotton into luminous strips.

“You’re awake.”

“I thought I’d finish this batch before turning in,” she says. “Are you going to sleep already?”

A minute later in the bathroom, the light doesn’t turn on. I urinate in the dark. Outside the window is an endless bamboo forest. On windy nights the rustling of the leaves makes me shiver, but tonight because there is no wind there is no sound. Only stillness, everything sealed in silence by the cold.

Frosty night, silk cotton strips. No waiting till morning to be stretched.

Date Unknown