All was well, I was at the tea kettle, placing the enamel lid gently on the counter, my hand on the faucet. The dog scratched her fleas. The ginger leaves stood still in the new sun. The knowledge of everything left me except for my consciousness of the kettle, which was all that mattered because that was where I was at the time. Inside American homes, messages magnetized to refrigerator doors, irons cooling on counters, coffee pots gurgling, there was one moment, the one in which my fingers grasped the tea kettle lid.The moments on freeways take on whole continents, centuries of time, our psyches travel too fast, engage with nothing but their own fleeting tendencies. We forget to see what it is that our hands are touching, forget to see the moment where we are.
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