What the Glass Holds

The drinking glass my grandmother left holds nothing now but the shape of holding— a cylinder of old light, cool to the touch, the rim worn thin where lips once pressed.

I fill it from the tap and watch the water forget its source the moment it arrives, becoming simply here, simply still, reflecting the window, the bare branch outside.

She taught me how to water plants at dusk when the heat had softened into something kind. Now I do it alone, and the can tips forward with the same angle her wrist once made.

Objects carry this knowledge in their silence— the particular weight of a handle, where the paint thinned first. I am still learning to read them.