The paper bag crumples in my hands

The paper bag crumples in my hands,

a grease stain tracing edges,

a ghost of yesterday’s lunch,

each mark a story I can’t unsee.

The woman at the bakery,

hands shaking, counting coins,

her face lined with unspent years,

reminds me that small struggles

are threaded through the fabric of our days,

woven into the mundane;

we share this delicate weight,

a tapestry of life—

and I carry it home,

that grease stain a reminder

of hands that work and ache,

how even small things leave their mark.