Faded Pattern

Drying my hands.

A single mug,

clean now.

My fingers caught on the rough edge

of the dish towel.

Worn thin, almost.

See-through in places.

The pattern, what was it?

Flowers? Little birds?

It was hard to tell.

Just a blur of faded color.

Like a memory

that’s been washed too many times.

I let it go.

Went back to drying my hands.