The Groove

I found the jar in the nightstand drawer.

The surface has a thumbprint in it.

My thumbprint. Deep enough that I can see it,

deep enough that my thumb fits exactly into the groove.

I didn't realize I'd worn it that way.

All those small repairs in the dark—

chapped lips, a cut, the dry patch

that comes back every winter.

My thumb finding the same jar,

finding the same groove it had made.

The white jelly gives slightly under pressure.

It remembers my thumb.

My thumb remembers where the groove is.

I thought about how many times

my hand reached in the dark

and found this jar

and my thumb found this groove

and scooped just enough

to fix something small.

The groove is permanent now.

Or it will be until—