“A dozen cannisters of powdered soap, ordered months ago, have been delivered to the loading platform. They must be moved indoors.”
I quote you an entire chapter here. Two sentences: 21 words: complete. It might be a bill of lading; it might be a response in liturgy. On either side there are terse chapters, scenes that retell impressive suffering: flood, fire, landslide, stupid death. Yet that mute shipment, that powdered soap, took me to the start of tears. True, I relate: I have worked in a factory since my 15th year; and father and grandfather for three decades before that. Pearl Harbor, Nagasaki, Inchon, Dallas, moonwalk, Saigon: those events did occur somewhere. We had it on good authority; we could trust. But throughout, you see, things had to be unloaded, loaded on. The process was devout and frank as breath.
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