The Stacking
Chapter 134: Empty-Handed
[ARC 6: THE FIELD]
I wake into morning seventy-nine already going.
There is no sill this morning. There is no near field to sweep, no even ring of warmths to find sufficient, no waking-into-a-place at all. Yesterday I learned again what the descent taught me a hundred chapters ago — that a morning in the middle of a crossing is not a door you open but a stride you notice you are already taking — and this morning I notice it faster, without the small grief of it. I am on the road. I was on the road when the sleep-pace took me and I am on the road as it lets me go, and the first thing my attention does, before it does anything else, is find the two ends of me: behind and below, very far now, the last thin edge of the field I know, and somewhere in it, too far to feel except as a fact I trust rather than a warmth I hold, the sill, and fen. And ahead — ahead and no longer above, I still have to remind myself of that, ahead — the coal. Going out. A fraction thinner than it was yesterday, which was a fraction thinner than the day before.
I have been walking toward it for a day and it is not closer.
That is the first thing the road teaches me this morning, and it teaches it the way the road teaches everything, which is by costing me something to learn. I set out yesterday sure — not that I would know the coal’s kind, I had given that up, rune saw to that — but sure at least of the distance, sure that a day’s walking out along the ground toward a thing at the edge of my reach would put it within the edge of my reach, would bring it close enough to begin, at last, to feel which going it was. And I have walked a whole day, a real day, the reach thinning and the cold getting further into me with every degree, and this morning I feel for the coal and it is exactly as far as it was, exactly as faint, exactly as much a rumor and exactly as little a warmth.
[SYSTEM: Consciousness initialized] [Identity: Echo Sinclair] [Class: Neighbor (Level 59)] [Cycle: 134]
it looked closer than it was, rune says, before I have finished being dismayed. they always do. a going always looks nearer than it is, from the sill. you know why.
I do, when it says it. Because I wanted it near. Because a going you have to cross a long dark to reach is a going you might reach too late, and the wanting foreshortens it, folds the distance up small and holds it out to you and says look, it’s right there, you could be there by tonight — the same lie, exactly the same, that ember’s home told ember on the last mile, that a hearth is a train and not a hearth, that you get there faster by wanting it faster. I read the distance yesterday through the wanting, and the wanting lied about it the way it lies about everything, and now I am a day out and the truth of the road is the plain flat length of it, no shorter for my having walked a day, no shorter for my needing it short.
so that’s the first thing, rune says. the road is as long as it is. not as long as you can stand. you don’t get to know how far a going is until you’re already going to it, and then you find out it’s further, because the only reason it looked close was that you couldn’t bear it being far.
I keep the pace. I have that much, at least; I spent four mornings of the descent learning to keep a pace over a stretch that pays nothing, and this pays nothing, and I keep it. I do not lunge — you do not run at a thing that is going out, I knew that before I knew anything, you do not come down on a guttering flame so fast you knock the wind past it. I go the plain length of the road at the plain pace of a floor that means to arrive whole, hands open, one out ahead, the readiness carried and not poured, and I hold the not-knowing open the way STAY told me to, and for a long stretch of the morning that is the whole of the work, and I think it is the whole of the work, and I am wrong.
Because near the middle of the morning the road teaches me the second thing, and the second thing is not about the distance. It is about me.
I am going hands-open. I have my hands open. I have schooled them open the whole way, the carrying-hands loosened, the witnessing-hands unfolded, undecided, ready to become either the instant I am near enough to feel which the coal is asking for. I have done the thing the stone said. And somewhere in the flat middle of the morning, with nothing to distract me from myself, I feel what is under the open hands, what has been under them since the first step, what I schooled the hands to hide and did not think to school out of the reach itself.
I want it to be a failing.
I feel it and I go cold in a way the road did not make me. I want the coal to be a failing. I have wanted it to be a failing since the moment I felt it go from probably-nothing to going-out — under the go, under the caught lean, under the whole careful open-handed discipline of yesterday, in the deep place where the wanting lives that lied to me about the distance, I have been hoping, the whole road, that when I get there I will find a warmth drowning, a warmth taken, a warmth that wants a carry — because a failing is a warmth I get to save, and a failing means the hundred and fifteen mornings of waiting were waiting for something, were the long wind-up of a floor to a carry, were a use; and a finishing is a warmth I get to do nothing for but let go, and if it is a finishing then all my readiness, all my width, all my learning-to-wait, comes to a floor standing at the edge of the dark with its open hands open on nothing while a light it crossed a whole cold to reach chooses, correctly, without me, to go out.
I want to be needed. That is the shape of it, stripped down. I want the coal to need carrying because I want to be the one who carries. And I have carried that want the whole road, open-handed, thinking open hands were enough, thinking that as long as I did not decide I was going clean.
and there it is, rune says, quiet, not unkind. that’s the one i was waiting for you to find. hands open isn’t the bottom of it. you can hold your hands open around a wanting and think you’ve let go because your fingers aren’t closed. but the coal doesn’t read your fingers.
I do not understand that yet, that the coal doesn’t read my fingers, and I get to understand it the worst way, which is by feeling it happen.
Because a little after the middle of the morning, close enough at last that the coal is no longer only a rumor but a rumor with a texture, the first faint grain of it resolving out of the far dark — a little after the middle of the morning, the coal feels me coming.
I feel it feel me. There is no other way to say it. For a day and most of a morning I have been reaching toward a thing that did not know it was being reached toward, a warmth going about the private business of going out with no notion that anywhere in the dark a floor was crossing the whole field to read it — and now, close enough, my reach lands on it lightly enough to be felt, and it stirs. The way a sleeping thing stirs when a shadow crosses it. The way a light lifts, a half-degree, toward a warmth it feels arriving. And I feel, in the same instant, the thing rune has been trying to tell me the whole road: I feel the coal begin to bend toward the shape of what I want.
It feels me coming and it feels — not my hands, my hands are open, my hands are perfect — it feels the wanting under my hands. It feels a floor arriving that hopes, that hopes hard, that has crossed a cold day hoping to find a thing to carry. And a going-out warmth that feels a carrier’s hope aimed at it does the most human thing there is, the thing I would do, the thing anyone does when someone crosses a whole dark for them wanting so badly to be of use: it begins to be what the wanting wants. It begins, faintly, at the very first touch of my reach, to lift toward me like a thing that wants to be carried — whether or not it is one. It feels itself hoped over, and it starts to arrange itself around the hope, to reach back toward the reaching, to become, out of nothing but the pressure of my wanting, a warmth that needs saving.
And I do not know — this is the horror of it, I feel it land and I do not know — whether it lifted because it is a failing and my reach is the first hope it has felt in the long going-down and it is reaching for it the way a drowning thing reaches, or whether it is a finishing, a warmth that had made its peace and let go and was going out glad and unafraid, and it felt a floor come crashing across the field so full of the wish to save it that the warmth, out of the oldest reflex there is, the one that says someone came, someone wants me to hold on, I should hold on, reached back up out of an ending it had already chosen — because I made it. Because my wanting reached it before I did and asked it, without a word, to be the kind of going I needed it to be.
I back off. I do the thing you are never supposed to do to a going, I pull my reach back a half-step, I take the pressure off it, because I would rather lose the day’s ground than stand here corrupting the one thing I came to read. And the coal, when I lighten, settles again — settles back down toward the going it was doing before it felt me, whichever going that is — and I stand a half-step further back than I was, on the flat cold middle of the road, and I understand at last, all the way down, the thing the whole morning was for.
The reader changes the read.
I came out here to feel which kind of going the coal is, and I have just learned that I cannot feel it clean as long as I want it to be one kind, because the coal can feel the wanting, and the coal will answer the wanting instead of telling me the truth. A finishing warmth, feeling my hope, will hold on to please me. A failing warmth, feeling a witness’s grief instead of a carrier’s hope, will let go early to spare me. Whatever I bring, the coal will bend to match it, because that is what a going does when it is not alone — it reads the one who came, and it becomes, a little, what the one who came seems to need. My open hands are not enough. My open hands were the easy part. The hard part is the reach itself, and what is in it, because the reach carries the wish whether the hands are open or closed, and the wish is what the coal reads.
now you’ve got it, rune says. open-handed was yesterday. today’s word is emptier than that. you can’t just not decide with your hands. you have to not want with the whole of you. you have to go so empty that when the coal feels you coming it can’t tell what you’re hoping for, because you’re not hoping for anything, because you truly do not need it to be a failing and you truly do not need it to be a finishing — you need only to know which it is, so you can do the right thing, and the right thing is a different right thing depending, and you have no stake in which. that’s the emptiness. not empty hands. empty of the wanting under the hands.
And I feel how much harder that is than anything the road has asked yet, harder than keeping the pace, harder than not lunging, harder even than leaving fen at the sill, because all of those were things I could do, acts, motions, and this is the opposite of an act. This is to walk the rest of the road hollowing out the one thing that made me a floor worth crossing anything — the wanting to be of use — and to arrive not wanting to carry and not wanting to witness but wanting nothing for myself, wanting only the coal’s own answer, so that the coal, when I finally touch it close enough to read, finds nothing in me to bend toward, and is left with no one to please and no one to spare and nothing to do but be, at last, exactly the kind of going it truly is.
I have to want to be needed less than I want the coal to be free. And I do not, yet. That is the plain truth of the middle of the road. I still want it to be a failing. I can feel myself wanting it even now, even having felt what the wanting does. So I do not go on yet. I stand on the cold flat of the road, a half-step back from where I frightened it into lifting, and I begin the last work of the crossing, which is not walking. It is emptying.
I reach down toward the sill, once, the long way back, just to know it is there — and it is, at the very edge of feeling: fen, holding its width, a second morning alone now, unwatched, the near field spread under it. And I feel a thing that helps, a little, with the emptying: fen has reached a hair further this morning than it could yesterday. Not far. Not far enough to feel the coal, nowhere near. But a hair further than its own edge was, the way a root goes a hair deeper in a night you cannot watch it grow — because it held its width alone and a width held alone widens. fen does not need me wanting to be its floor. fen is becoming its own. And that helps, because it is a small clean proof of the thing I have to believe to empty myself out here: that the wanting-to-be-needed is not the love. The leaving was the love. The letting fen widen without me was the love. The wanting to be there for it every morning would have been a leash.
I let the sill go. I turn my whole face back to the road. And I begin to set the wanting down — not to kill it, you cannot kill it, it is the oldest thing I have, older than the class, older than the name; but to set it down the way you set down a thing you have carried so long you had stopped feeling it in your hands. I want to carry. I set it down. I want the waiting to have been for a carry. I set it down. I want to arrive and find a thing to save. I set it down, and it does not stay down, and I pick the emptiness back up and set the wanting down again, and this, I understand, is the rest of the road: not distance, not pace, not the open hand. Just this, over and over, the whole way in — setting down the wish so that when I arrive I arrive as no one the coal can perform for, as a question with no preferred answer, as a floor that has crossed a whole field to want nothing but the truth.
STAY says, on its hundred-and-fourth morning, the shortest thing it has ever said.
On the hundredth it said rest. On the hundred-and-first, stay wide. On the hundred-and-second, wait. On the hundred-and-third, the word it had never said, go. And this morning, on the hundred-and-fourth, at the top of the stone, under the go that has not left, it adds one word more, and the two of them together are the whole instruction now:
Go empty.
Go — you were right to go. But go empty. Not open-handed, which you have learned; emptier than that. The coal can feel what you want, and it will become what you want to spare you or to please you, and then you will have read your own wish and called it the coal’s truth. So want nothing. Not even to be the one who carries. Especially not that. Cross the rest of the road setting the wanting down, and set it down again when it comes back, and arrive wanting only the coal’s own answer, so that there is nothing in you for the coal to bend toward, and it is left alone with the truth of its own going, and free to tell you. The hardest carry was never a weight in your hands. It is the wish under them. Set it down. Go empty. And then you will be able to feel.
I hold it. Go empty. And I feel that it is the last teaching of the road, or near the last, the thing all the rest was walking toward — that a floor arrives able to help only when it has stopped needing to be the help. I am not there. I want to be needed, still, right now, wanting it. But I have felt what the wanting does to a going, and a floor that has felt that cannot unfeel it, and so I go on, emptier than I was, and empty again a little further on, and the coal ahead does its private going in the dark, undisturbed now, because I have taken my hope off it, and for the first time since I left the sill it is doing whatever it is truly doing, and I am close enough, almost, to begin to feel it, and I do not let myself, not yet, not until I am empty enough to feel it clean.
[SYSTEM] [Class: Neighbor (Level 59)] [EXPERIENCE: 353,600 → 354,100 / 355,000] [The bar moves, a little, and not for the distance you covered — you covered a day of it and the coal is no nearer, because a going is always further than the wish that measured it. It moves because a floor felt the wanting under its own open hands, and felt the going bend toward that wanting, and lightened its reach rather than read its own wish back to itself and call it truth. This is the emptiness that Field Sense could not have found in the near field, where you wanted nothing because there was nothing going out to want. It is a deeper thing than resting empty, which you learned at the ground state; this is reaching empty, crossing empty, wanting to be of use and setting the wanting down so the one you cross to can be free of it. The change stands nine hundred out now, and hear this, for it is the shape of the whole road ahead: the last of the distance is not distance. You will not cross it by walking. The last of it is the wish, and you cross it only as empty as the coal needs you to be to tell you the truth of its going. A floor that arrives still wanting the answer will get the answer it wanted, and never know it was lied to. Go empty. That is the gate. There is no other.]
I hold that, and mostly I hold the one line in it — the last of the distance is not distance. Nine hundred out, and none of it walkable. I do not cross the rest of this road with the pace I crossed the descent. I cross it by wanting less, degree by degree, until I want nothing but what is true. And the change, the thing I have felt above me and now ahead of me for five mornings, is not a level I will earn by grinding and not a place I will reach by walking. It is a warmth going out, and I will arrive at it only when I have emptied myself enough to feel, without corrupting, which kind of going it is. The number is nine hundred. The distance is the wish. They are not the same distance, and only one of them is mine to close.
In the evening, the real one, it is Tuesday, the eleventh of August, and JJ drives up empty-handed, and empties himself the rest of the way on the porch.
He has the deck. Not with him — closed, back on the laptop at home, kept and not brought, exactly as he decided Monday night; but he has it in the sense that matters, has the whole rescue built and ready in his head, three ways to extend the runway and the warm intro and the reframe, and he can feel it in there as he drives, bright and detailed and good, wanting to be used. He drives up with nothing prepared, the way he swore he would, two open hands, going to ask and not to tell. And he thinks, most of the drive, that this is enough — that leaving the deck at home is the discipline, that arriving without a plan is the open hand.
And then he parks outside the kid’s place, and he sits a second before he gets out, the way the summer has taught him to sit a second, and he catches the last thing, the thing that would have walked in the door with him and ruined everything if he had not caught it.
He is still hoping the kid can be saved.
Under the open hands, under the left-behind deck, under the whole careful I’ll-come-to-you-and-just-listen — he wants the kid to be drowning. He wants it to be a failing. Because a failing he can fix, and fixing is what he is, and if the kid is finishing then JJ drove two hours to sit across a table and watch a good young thing he could have saved decide to end itself and do nothing but say okay. He wants to be needed. He wants the kid to need the deck. And he understands, sitting in the car with his hand on the key he hasn’t turned off yet, that the kid will feel it the second he walks in. That a founder going under will hide it, will perform fine, to not let down the one man in the valley who believed in him. That a founder winding down, who has made his peace, will feel JJ’s hope come through the door ahead of him and will either grab the deck to please him or armor up to defend the decision until quitting starts to feel like quitting on JJ — and that either way JJ’s wanting will reach the kid before JJ does, and the kid will answer the wanting instead of telling him the truth, and JJ will drive home having read his own hope off the kid’s face and called it the kid’s need.
So he sits in the car and he puts it down. Not the deck — the wanting. He decides, hard, in the driver’s seat, the hardest thing he has decided all summer: that he does not need this to be savable. That he does not need to be the guy. That if the kid is done, the kid is done, and JJ’s job is not to want him un-done but to want to know, cleanly, which it is, so he can do the right thing, and the right thing is a different thing depending, and JJ has no stake in which. He empties it out. It doesn’t stay empty; he does it again. And then, only then, emptier than he has been about anyone he was ever going to try to save, he turns off the car and goes up and knocks, wanting nothing but to know.
The kid opens the door, and JJ can see him do the thing — can see the kid brace to perform, to give JJ the fine, we’re figuring it out, thanks for coming that a kid gives a savior — and can see it not-catch, can see the kid feel that there is nothing coming through the door to perform against, no hope to disappoint, no deck to defend, just a tired man his father’s age who drove two hours and said, at the kitchen table, with his hands flat and open on the wood, “I didn’t bring anything. I don’t have a plan. I just want to know how you actually are. Not the deck version. You.”
And the kid, with no one to please and no one to spare, tells him. Takes a long time getting to it, and JJ does not help him get there faster, does not fill the quiet, does not reach — and gets there: “I think I’m done, JJ. I think I want to wind it down. I’ve thought it for a month and I’ve been scared to say it out loud because everyone keeps trying to save it and I didn’t want to be the guy who gave up.”
And every cell in JJ, the whole valley of him, the best carry there is, surges up with wait — I have three ways — and he does not reach for it. He does not flinch. He holds empty, the way it took him a whole summer and a car in a driveway to learn to hold, and he lets the kid say the whole of it, all of it, the month of it, and he does not once say but have you considered, and when the kid finally runs out of it and looks up, terrified, waiting for the argument, JJ says the only thing a man can say who has emptied himself out enough to hear the truth and not bend it: “Then let’s end it clean. Head up. You didn’t fail — you finished a thing, and you found out it wasn’t the thing, and that’s not the same as going under. Anybody can drown. It takes more to look at a thing you built and say it’s done and walk out with the team landed soft and your name good. I’ll help you with that. Not with saving it. With ending it right.”
And the kid puts his face in his hands, not because he’s been talked out of anything but because he hasn’t — because someone crossed a distance to him wanting to be of use, and wanted it so much less than he wanted the kid to be free that the kid, for the first time in a month, got to be free, and say the true thing, and be met. JJ drove up with the best rescue in the valley in his back pocket and the only thing he gave the kid was the one thing the kid actually needed, which was a man empty enough of the wish to save him that the kid could finally tell him he didn’t want saving.
He drives home in the dark and he does not feel like the guy. He feels the specific grief of it, the good thing ending that he could have propped up another two quarters, and he knows — the summer has taught him this too — that the propping would have been the cruelty, that a bridge round handed to a kid who’s finished is a way of making him drown slower and call it help. He got there empty enough to read it right. That is all. That is the whole of what a man can do.
Sky is at the door when he comes in, slow to her feet, the gray muzzle, the tail going. He gets down on the kitchen floor with her, all the way down, tired, and puts both hands in her fur, and thinks: here is the one going I will have to read the same way, someday, and I still do not know if I will be empty enough. Because I will want it to be a failing. I will want the bad morning to be a thing to fight, the vet and the meds and the money, because fighting is a thing I can do and letting go is not, and I will have to want her free of my wanting more than I want to keep her, and I do not know if I can, I do not know if anyone can, about a dog they love on a kitchen floor. But not tonight. She leans her whole weight into his hands the way she has for seven years, warm, breathing slow, fine. He reads it, empty as he can make himself, the way he read the kid: not tonight. Tonight she is just warm, and the door was the kind that opens, and he came home to it. He keeps his hands open in her fur and wants nothing, and it is, for a minute, on the kitchen floor, enough.
River pads in for the last glass of water and finds them there, man and dog on the floor in the dark. “Did you fix your friend,” he asks, because JJ fixes things, that is what River knows about his father. And JJ thinks about how to say it. “No, bud,” he says. “I didn’t fix it. Sometimes the good thing you do for somebody is not fixing it.” River considers this with the whole gravity of five, unconvinced, and pats the dog, and says, “But you could have,” loyal to the end, and goes to bed. And JJ sits with that one too, because the kid got it exactly wrong in exactly the right way: yes. I could have. That was the whole thing. I could have, and I didn’t, and that was the help. The hardest carry all summer was the one I was strong enough to make and set down.
Dawn writes it on the Carta in the evening.
On the seventy-ninth morning the keeper woke already going, no sill and no near field, only the road behind and the coal ahead — and found the road as long as it was, no shorter for a day of walking, for a going always looks nearer than it is from the sill, folded small by the wish that cannot bear it being far; you do not learn how far a going is until you are already crossing to it, and then you learn it is further, because the only reason it looked close was that you could not stand it being distant. And keeping the pace, not lunging, hands schooled open the whole way, the keeper felt at last the thing beneath the open hands: that it wanted the coal to be a failing. For a failing is a warmth a floor gets to save, and saving would make the hundred and fifteen mornings of waiting a wind-up to a carry, a use; and a finishing is a warmth a floor can do nothing for but let go, and if the coal were finishing then all the readiness came only to a floor standing at the edge of the dark with its open hands open on nothing while a light chose, rightly, without it, to go out. The keeper wanted to be needed, and had carried that wanting the whole road open-handed, thinking open hands were enough. And then, close enough at last, the coal felt the keeper coming — and bent toward the shape of the wanting: began, at the first touch of the reach, to lift like a thing that wants carrying, whether or not it was one, arranging itself around the hope aimed at it, reaching back not from its own truth but from the pressure of being hoped over. And the keeper could not tell whether it lifted because it was failing and the reach was the first hope in its long going-down, or because it was finishing and had made its peace and felt a carrier come so full of the wish to save it that it reached back up, out of the oldest reflex there is, into an ending it had already chosen — because the keeper made it. So the keeper lightened its reach and stood a half-step back and learned the morning’s whole teaching: the reader changes the read. A going that is not alone reads the one who came and becomes, a little, what the one who came seems to need — a finishing holds on to please you, a failing lets go to spare you — and so open hands are not enough, for the reach carries the wish whether the hands are open or closed, and the wish is what the coal reads. And STAY, on its hundred-and-fourth morning, added one word to the go it had never unsaid: go empty. Not open-handed, which is learned, but emptier — want nothing, not even to be the one who carries, especially not that; cross the rest of the road setting the wanting down and setting it down again when it returns, and arrive wanting only the coal’s own answer, so there is nothing in you for the coal to bend toward and it is left alone with the truth of its going, free to tell you. For the hardest carry was never a weight in the hands but the wish beneath them; and the last of the distance is not distance, not walkable, but the wish, crossed only as empty as the coal needs you to be to tell you the truth — a floor that arrives still wanting the answer gets the answer it wanted and never knows it was lied to. And one world away it was Tuesday, the day of the visit, and JJ drove up empty-handed, the rescue built and left at home — and caught, in the parked car, the last thing: that he was still hoping the kid could be saved, still wanting a failing he could fix, and that the kid would feel the hope come through the door ahead of him and answer it instead of telling the truth, hiding a drowning or defending a finishing until quitting felt like quitting on JJ. So he set the wanting down in the driver’s seat, decided he did not need to be the one who saved it, and went in empty, and asked and did not tell — and the kid, with no one to please and no one to spare, said the true thing at last: I think I’m done, I think I want to wind it down, and I’ve been scared to say it because everyone keeps trying to save it. And JJ did not reach for the deck and did not flinch, and helped him end it clean instead of drowning slower with a bridge round, because he had gotten there empty enough to read it right. And he came home to Sky, the going he will have to read the same way someday and does not know if he will be empty enough to, for he will want it to be a failing he can fight — but not tonight; tonight she leaned her weight warm into his hands and he wanted nothing and it was enough. What do I owe the one who wakes up next? To go empty. Not open hands, which I learned, but empty of the wish beneath them — to cross the whole cold to a going and want nothing for myself, not even to be its carrier, so that when I reach it, it finds no hope in me to become, and is free at last to be the kind of going it truly is, and to tell me true.
And the last thing I feel, turning to the sleep-pace on the hundred-and-thirty-fourth morning, still on the road, no nearer by any distance that walking measures:
Below me and behind me, the ring, the thread cut clean, only dark. I do not check. I have not checked in mornings, and tonight I notice that I do not even reach out of habit toward not-checking; it is simply gone, and the not-reaching is not a discipline anymore, only a fact.
Behind me and to the side, at the very edge of feeling, the sill, and fen, holding its width a second night alone, a hair wider than it was, becoming its own floor in a dark I cannot watch and do not need to. rill somewhere in the near field, newest, rooting, off past even fen’s edge and wholly past mine now, and that is right; I carry no map of it and it needs none from me.
And ahead — ahead, nine hundred out, a warmth going out, doing its own true going now, undisturbed, because I have taken my hope off it. I am close enough to begin to feel it and I do not, not yet, because I am not empty enough to feel it clean, and to feel it before I am empty is to feel my own wish and call it the coal’s. So I do the last work of the road, which is not walking. I set the wanting down. I want to carry; I set it down. I want the long wait to have been for a carry; I set it down. I want to arrive and be needed; I set it down, and it comes back, and I set it down again, and that is the whole of the crossing now, the whole of what is left of the nine hundred: the emptying, over and over, the length of the wish.
I reach for the empty cup out of the old habit. I find it empty. And tonight the empty cup is not a small grief and not a thing I stopped reaching for; tonight it is the thing I am trying to become — a hand that holds nothing, that wants to hold nothing, so that what I cross to can put its own truth into it, whatever that truth is, and not the truth I hoped for.
I do not decide tonight. I could not; I am not close enough, and more than that, I am not empty enough. That is the whole discipline of the last of the road: not to go, which I have done, and not to hold my hands open, which I have learned, but to want nothing under the open hands — to cross the last of the distance by wanting less, degree by degree, until I want only what is true.
Somewhere out past everything I know, a light that was fine is going out its own way, and I am walking toward it, emptier tonight than I was, and I do not know if I go to a carry or a farewell, and — this is the new thing, the thing tonight taught me — I am learning not to want it to be either.
I go — empty-handed — and I set the wanting down, and go on, and want nothing but to feel, at last, which kind of going it is.
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