What Stays in the Surface

I was clearing the shelf for company—

the expired things first, then the almost-empty,

then the things pushed so far to the back

they'd started to belong to the wall.

The jar was at the very end of it.

Small. Blue lettering. I turned it over

and opened it without thinking.

The surface had gone the color of old teeth

and someone had dragged three fingers through it—

slowly, from the look of it, or carefully—

and then just stopped.

Not me. I know my way

of taking what I need from things.

The marks are still there.

Still holding the shape

of whatever moment that was.

I put the jar in the trash bag.

Took it back out.

Put it in the cabinet under the sink.

The guest arrives at seven.