A thing is what one does when someone else cannot see one doing it, such as me over to my ma's. Her small back is turned with her nose inside a glass of water, a blade of sunlight covers her eyes, and I'm out the door carrying a small bag of trash and one of the elephants in the room. I manage, I believe, to throw away a piece of junk. I do this as one does a thing: sneakily.
I have sneakily thrown away my ma's junk, piece by piece, as is my purgatory for returning to live near her, for pining for a mother's love I suppose.
I've found other love akin to a thing or I have known love before so truly intimate I cannot accept a thing less. If you have lived for years without love, you know what it is. If you're not denied it, you take it so for granted you don't know how to begin to express love.
A thing sneakily is nitpicky and unfeeling, parted down the middle. I recognize this. I felt parted down the middle driving the elephant out of my mother's one bedroom, subsidized apartment. She spends a great deal of time alone and I know it's that part of her I inherited. I would rather spend time alone than be among people without love.