Stone Memory

Ran my hand across the slate countertop,

cool and dark, smooth under my palm.

Then I found it, a ghost ring,

almost gone, where a hot pan must have sat

so many years ago, burned a trace.

It wasn't deep, no rough break,

just a faint etching, a story told

in discoloration, fading slow.

Like how some things stay, even when

you think they've been erased,

a quiet history pressed into stone.