He did not talk about it.
That was not unusual for him. He had never been a person who needed to narrate his interior in order to make it real. Things were real whether they were said or not. He had known this from early on and had built his way of moving through the world around it, the specific economy of a person who did not spend words on things that did not require them.
But he thought about it.
Often. In the spaces between other things, in the middle of the night sometimes, in the early mornings before the house woke up when he was the only one at the counter with his coffee and the particular quiet of a house full of sleeping people.
He thought about what he kept.
Not the significant things. The significant things kept themselves, they did not require his effort, they were large enough that they were simply there, part of the structure of how he understood the years.
The small things required keeping.
