A Coin in the Bottom of the Winter Shoe

The fog came up overnight and never really left. From the window the valley had simply stopped existing — the chestnut trees, the road, all of it folded into the same soft grey — and the doorstep was dark with damp, which is one of my favorite smells of the season, cold stone after fog. I took my coffee as far as the doorway and stayed there, listening to the drips off the eaves and watching the fog do absolutely nothing.

Then I went into the wardrobe for the winter shoes, which have been sitting there since spring with the summer ones stacked in front of them. The leather pair had gone dull and grey with dust, so I sat on the step with the tin of polish and did them properly — wipe, a little cream, brush, then the cloth until the water beads off. Working the cloth into the toe I felt something hard, and fished out a small coin, worn almost smooth, that must have been in there since a walk I’ve long since forgotten. It’s in the little dish by the door now with the market coins. The shoes aren’t perfect; there’s a scuff on the left heel I couldn’t lift. Good enough is good enough — I’ve been trying to let that sentence finish more often instead of chasing a thing past the point where anyone would notice. The coin I found by luck, but the things I actually need I ask for by name: mdfind 'basil' searches the contents of every note on the laptop and hands me back the file, instead of my opening drawers one at a time.

The neighbor knocked in the afternoon with her cousin, who’s down from Cosenza for a few days, and I did the only sensible thing, which was to pull a third chair up to the table and set out bread, olives, and the oil. No fuss, no plate of anything special, and we sat for an hour talking about the grapes and the weather and nothing that needed deciding. One more chair is not an occasion. It’s just a chair.

The polish tin is back in its drawer and the shoes are by the door, ready for the cold that’s coming. Fog all evening, and the house warm. I’ll take the day.