Small Histories

She folds the napkin, neat, precise,

a tiny square, a quick device

against spilled coffee, or a crumb.

Her thumb, it bears a scar, quite numb.

A thin white line, a story kept,

from when she fell, or maybe wept

and cut herself, on something keen.

A little hurt, that can't be unseen.

Her fingers tap a rhythm, low,

on the table, soft and slow.

A wedding ring, too loose it seems,

slides up and down, a faded dream.

These quiet movements, small and deep,

the little secrets that they keep.

A life played out, in tiny ways,

through ordinary coffee days.