Weight of Ordinary Things

Morning light falls through the kitchen window catching dust motes like small histories— each one has traveled somewhere, seen something.

I pick up a coffee mug, its handle smooth from ten thousand mornings, fingers seeking the groove worn by a stranger's grip.

What does it mean to hold what others held? The clay remembers nothing but the shape, yet I feel the weight of their mornings too.

Outside, leaves scatter across the path, each one carries the season in its veins, and I think about all the things we touch and leave behind, thinking they'll stay small.