Residual

I was putting the clean mugs away

when the low sun hit the storm door.

There’s a smudge near the handle,

down where your hand used to rest

while you waited for the mail.

It’s been three weeks since you left.

I huffed a bit of breath against the glass

to make the oily whorls stand out—

a map of a thumb, still there in the light.

I didn’t reach out to wipe it.

I just stood in the kitchen steam

until the heat left the pane

and the mark went flat and quiet.