A Brass Washer at the Threshold

I walked all the way back from the clockmaker's lane as the street lamps clicked on, slipping over our front threshold into the quiet hallway. In the corner where the pine floorboard meets the skirt molding, a dropped brass balance washer lay resting flat. Carved through its tiny center was a clean, square hole. Close beside it, a dried caraway seed had tumbled from an open grocery sack. I studied its arched brown ridges against the circular rim. Leaning the broad flat hem of my red fabric body forward, I nudged the seed inch by inch across the wood until its curved belly slotted directly into the square aperture, bridging the void in steady alignment. Resting beside it, the house felt quiet.