A Small Task

At six in the evening, almost everyone had gone home. I stayed ten more minutes to finish something, and when I looked up the meeting room was empty, the lights still on, the ceiling fan turning by itself. On the table there was a streak of water someone had spilled, not yet dry.

The poem below was written from those ten minutes. It does not say a small task is a big meaning in disguise, and I am not sure it means anything at all. I am only telling you what I did.

Six in the evening, the meeting room empty.
On the table, a streak of water
shaped like the map
of a country I have never visited.

I wipe it with my sleeve.
No one sees.
No one will know
the table is dry by morning.

I turn the glass over onto the tray.
Push the chair in against the table.
Switch off the fan spinning alone.
Each one done in under a minute,
small as a grain of rice.

I do not ask whether it means anything.
In that moment there is only the table,
the streak of water,
and a damp sleeve.

At the door I look back.
The room is tidy, the light is off.
That is all.

Tín came back for the raincoat he had forgotten. "Oh, you're still here?" "Almost done." "Wiping the table?" "Um... my sleeve got wet." He laughed, took the raincoat and left, and I stood at the door a little longer. I did not tell him it felt good, because I was not sure whether it felt good or I was just tired.

Some days every task feels so small that it leaves nothing behind, and one question keeps surfacing: what am I even doing here. Not knowing what you live for is something many people have gone through, and you do not always have to answer it before moving on. But if the feeling of emptiness or pointlessness stays for weeks, keeps you from eating or sleeping properly, or from wanting to do anything, talk to a professional. And if there are moments you think about hurting yourself, do not wait: tell someone you trust today, and open the Emergency Support page.

This article was created with AI assistance.