Only Now

By Peter Bowden


He woke each morning without a thought for what might come, his mind tied tightly to the now, like a sailor lashed to the mast in a storm. The sun slipped through the cracks in his blinds, turning dust motes into tiny, golden planets spinning in the still air. He dressed with the unhurried ease of a man with no tomorrows to fear or plan for, his feet moving over the worn floorboards, their creak as familiar as his own breath. Outside, the street hummed with the rattle of passing cars, the clatter of a shopkeeper rolling up his steel shutters, the bark of a dog in pursuit of something only it could see. He walked among it all, each step a note in the song of a morning that was his alone.

At the corner café, he sat in the same chair each day, its cracked vinyl seat molded to his shape, the table's wobbly leg a familiar quirk. He felt the heat of the cup in his hand, the bitter rush of coffee on his tongue, the sharp scent of baked bread drifting from the kitchen. The world swirled around him in moments—sugar dropped into a cup, the clink of a spoon, the burst of laughter from a nearby table. He needed nothing more than this, the now stretching endlessly before him, unmarked by the shadow of what might come.

In the afternoon, he wandered to the river, where the wind cut fresh and clean across the water, pushing waves against the worn stones of the bank. He dipped his hand into the cold current, feeling it rush past his fingers, swift and uncatchable. He watched the reeds sway and listened to the creak of a boat bumping against its mooring, every sound, every shiver of light and water a small, perfect piece of the world he lived in. He had no words for what lay beyond the moment, no need for the ticking of clocks or the turning of calendars. For him, the river's flow was enough, a constant, living present that needed no promise of what might come next.

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