Nothing in the Envelope

The road has worn down every signpost.

At the fork, he places a stone—

not to mark the way, but so he’ll know,

when he comes back, the hollow his own foot made.

Inside his coat, an envelope, unsealed.

No letter. Only a husk of grain.

Someone asks what it is.

He says, It fell from a stalk of rice the day I left home.

Lighter than a word. Heavier than a life.

On the coldest night, he presses a hand to his chest—

not to warm himself,

but to warm that husk,

afraid that if it freezes and shatters, he will lose

the sound that has been ringing inside it all along.

One step, one step, one step at a time.

Blisters on his soles break and grow into calluses.

Calluses split. New flesh shows through.

Pain, he says, means I’m still walking.

Walking means I still carry the husk.

Wading the river, he holds the envelope above his head.

Water reaches his mouth. He breathes through his nose.

Someone sinking thrusts a husk into his palm.

Afterwards, he can no longer tell if the husk is his own

or if that person, with one last breath, told him to walk on.

Later, sitting on a moss-covered stone stair,

he turns the envelope upside down and shakes it three times.

Nothing comes out.

The husk has long crumbled to powder.

He stands still for a moment, then laughs.

The sound, it turns out, has long since grown inside his ear.

One step, one step, one step at a time.

No longer touching his chest, he knows the heat is there.

He tears the empty envelope in two:

one half folds under his raw shoulder,

the other he shapes into a tiny human figure and leaves by the roadside,

saying, Rest enough, then catch up on your own.

Nothing in the envelope.

The road has no end.

He takes that husk, now broken, and its dust,

and buries it deep in the callus of his foot.

The sky is almost light. He tightens his shoelaces.

This time, no knot.