what falls through our fingers

I was washing a mug when it happened.

Just a mug. Just hot water.

The sponge came apart in my hand

like it had been waiting for permission,

like it had been holding something

that was finally allowed to leave.

Gray foam, falling.

Pieces so small they floated

in the sink basin,

suspended in warmth,

and then I saw it—

the grit, the weeks of it,

the debris from dishes,

the film from counters,

the things that should have been rinsed away

but stayed, stayed, stayed

inside the foam.

Released now.

Finally released.

I watched it disperse,

watched the water turn gray,

and something in my chest

did the same thing—

let go of something

it didn't know it was holding.

The sponge was just a sponge.

But I stood there longer than I needed to,

watching the debris cloud the water,

thinking about what else

has been quietly coming apart

in my hands,

piece by piece,

for weeks.