Paper lies scattered across a wooden tabletop faded to gray-white. Thick handmade paper, a sealing wax stamp, two open ink bottles, a kraft envelope with its grain still showing. Winter light from the window falls at a slant toward the left shoulder, and the right hand, holding a wooden pen, has just set the first letter down on a brown card.
The left hand presses down to keep the paper from sliding. In this posture the shoulders drop on their own, and the breath stops briefly, then loosens where the stroke ends. The eyes focus on a spot about two finger joints away from the fingertips, resting on a stroke whose ink has not yet dried.
There are sentences that never became words and stay caught near the throat. The kind of words carried around for a long time because there was no deciding who to give them to.
It is enough to take out a single sheet of paper and write just one line of that sentence. There is no need to put it in an envelope, no need to write an address. After finishing, while the ink dries, how about lowering the hands onto the knees and waiting.
The same thing can be set down in the brief moment of opening and closing a drawer. After the evening dishes are done, sitting at the table with hands wiped dry, one comes to lay another line over the dried strokes. It is worth checking with the eyes how much force is in the fingers holding the pen, whether the joints of the thumb and forefinger turn white. Where the point of loosening lies is also simply watched.
On the desk the unmailed sheets quietly pile up, and the winter light does not hurry them.
