Pumice in Hand

Rough stone presses

against my palm like a scar

forgotten beneath the skin.

My uncle’s voice

fills the kitchen air,

not loud, not soft,

but steady like this stone.

Pocked and light,

its surface crumbles slowly,

fragile and tough

at the same time.

I hold the weight of years

in this small gray piece—

wearing down things once sharp

until only holes remain.

A slow erosion,

a quiet breaking

of what seemed whole.