What Stays

The water is warm and I'm running my thumb inside the rim

when I feel it—a ridge, a whorl, something that won't smooth away,

a fingerprint pressed into the glass so long ago

the heat and friction couldn't take it.

I hold it up to the light and there it is,

complete, specific, a whole map of someone's skin,

and I can't tell whose.

Not mine—my thumb is wider.

Not my sister's—hers are smaller.

Could be my mother's. Could be someone

who lived here before I did, before the kitchen

was repainted, before the cabinets were reorganized.

I try to wash it off. It stays.

I scrub with my nail. It stays.

I run it under the hottest water the tap will give.

It stays.

And I think about what it means

that something this small, this specific,

can last this long without anyone knowing,

without anyone trying to preserve it,

and I dry the glass carefully

and put it back in the dark cabinet

with the print still inside,

still waiting,

and I don't tell anyone because I like the idea

that something I touched is evidence,

that I was here, that I will leave marks

even when I'm not trying,

even when I don't know I'm doing it,

even when I'm gone.