Sacred Ordinary Days

I wrote “eggs, soap, rice”

on the back of a receipt

and felt strangely proud

like I’d authored a small religion.

The supermarket lights were too bright

And still, I moved through them

like a person learning to stay.

﹁﹂

At home, dishwater turned my hands

into temporary clouds.

I watched the bubbles collapse

and thought, okay,

So even joy has a quiet ending.

﹁﹂

The neighbor’s baby cried through the wall,

then laughed—

two sounds that proved

We’re all still trying.

﹁﹂

I folded towels badly,

corners mismatched,

the kind of imperfection

That makes a house feel honest.

I lit no candles,

spoke no affirmations,

Yet the day felt held together

by simple acts that didn’t ask permission.

﹁﹂

There was silence after dinner

And I didn’t rush to fill it.

I let the room be a room,

let myself be a self,

not remarkable,

just here and breathing.