toe. denmark, maybe autumn.

Sometimes something unexpectedly important can begin almost anywhere.

In this case, it began with my left big toe.

It had taken a hit several months earlier. Possibly during football with a group of overenthusiastic toddlers. Possibly somewhere else.

For a long time, nothing much happened.

The nail stayed black.

Then, as October grew darker, the toe decided to become interesting.

At first it was only slightly sore. Eventually even the touch of an oversized woollen sock felt surprisingly ambitious.

Sleeping became a form of choreography. Even the edge of a bedsheet had developed an alarming sharpness.

By then the toe had begun to look like a prop from a splatter movie.

Walking became difficult.

For a visit to the barber, I borrowed my daughter's small pink scooter.

This seemed like a reasonable solution at home.

Outside, less so.

The scooter was too small. The largest sandal I could find for my left foot did not improve the situation.

There are moments when dignity quietly leaves the situation without saying goodbye.

○

After two remote assessments and several photographs of my toe sent through the healthcare app, I was invited to show it to an actual person.

A nurse looked at it.

She touched it. Pressed it.

She looked at the computer screen with the expression people have when the computer may contain something important.

She asked questions.

Then she called a doctor.

The doctor looked at the toe.

Pressed it.

Asked many of the same questions.

Looked at the computer.

Then called another doctor.

Eventually four doctors became involved.

Two nurses also got to know the toe.

Everyone was professional.

There were discussions.

There were screens.

There was pressing.

There was the unmistakable atmosphere of people who knew a great deal.

And yet, after a while, the most accurate summary seemed to be:

Hmm.

Nobody really knew.

○

I liked this more than I expected.

Not the toe.
The not knowing.

Years earlier, I had found myself in Copenhagen unable to remember what season it was.

I had just returned from India.

Behind me was a night drive through Karnataka: flashing headlights, constant horns, roadside chai, speed bumps taken at unreasonable speeds.

Then Bangalore Airport.

Documents. Checks. Queues. More queues.

India sometimes gives the impression that somewhere there must be a queue for joining another queue, although I never managed to locate it.

Then two flights across continents in metal tubes, watching Star Wars while my internal clock slowly gave up.

Eventually I reached Copenhagen.

After Diwali, Denmark felt almost impossibly quiet.

The metro seemed gentle.

The streets were grey.

Nobody honked.

And then I was sitting in the living room.

I looked outside.

And I couldn't remember whether it was spring or autumn.

This isn't an especially difficult question in most circumstances.

Admittedly, Copenhagen doesn't always help. Spring and autumn can both involve grey skies, wet pavement and people dressed for several possibilities at once.

Still.

I genuinely didn't know.

I checked the window again.

Nothing.

Then, for reasons I no longer remember, I stopped checking.

○

Eventually the toe got better.

I also remembered what season it was.

Both were probably useful developments.

For years, I tried to turn that Copenhagen afternoon into something profound. I read the right books. I used the right words in the right order.

At some point I even said the phrase

"the space before naming" out loud, to another adult, without irony.

These days I mostly just remember looking out of the window. Not knowing.

The room remained.

The tree outside remained.

The weather continued doing whatever weather does when nobody has decided what to call it.

○

Four doctors and two nurses looked carefully at my toe and couldn't quite say what was happening.

Years earlier, I had looked out of a window in Copenhagen and couldn't quite say what was happening either.

Both times, life carried on.

And after all the questions,
all the screens,
all the sophisticated language —
even the grand philosophies —
the most accurate thing left to say was still:‍ ‍

Hmm.