The Wheel

Someone is about to come but doesn't. Is about to turn on the stairs but doesn't. I button my shirt come from the laundry with all its dazzling blots, like one's peculiar fate. I shut the door, sit quietly. The fan begins to whirl and turn the air into a whirlpool of fire, making a noise bigger than the house. Someone is about to come and doesn't. It doesn't matter. Calmly I lean against the wall, become a wall. A wounded bird on my shoulder laughs raucously, laughs at the shoulder it perches on! My soul of flesh and blood puts a long thread in the needle's eye. I stitch a patch on my son's umbrella. I pick his nose and name the pickings: I call one "Elephant" and another "Lion." Someone is about to come and doesn't. Is about to turn on the stairs and doesn't. I tickle my children, they tickle me in turn; I laugh, with a will; for I do not feel tickled. It doesn't matter. I scan their fingers for signs: Nine conches and one wheel. Note: "Nine conches and one wheel" are formations of lines on the tips of fingers which, in Indian palmistry, foretell a happy life.