There is a shelf in my office that holds plaques from banks, papers, and marketing agencies. They are the proof that somebody, somewhere, believed a sentence I wrote mattered. Today, the shelf collapsed.

No one was hurt. The plaques survived. But the sound it made felt like a correction from the universe: awards are lighter than we imagine, heavier than we deserve. I put them back up, this time above the coffee maker.

It is appropriate that the shelf failed on a Wednesday, the least symbolic day. Borges would have preferred a full moon. Chatham County prefers a day that still has work to do.