Fine ceramic dust
Fine ceramic dust clings to your fingertip as you trace the table’s cool surface, mixed with the grit of old sugar. Trying to grasp that birthday—a single occasion—brings a jumble: an aunt's laughter echoing over radio static, the sweet scent of frosting battling rain-slicked pavement. Each remembered detail seems not to recover what *was*, but build upon it; recollections shift and blend like layers painted across one another. The past isn’t held steady, but spreads through present sensation, subtly altering what came before—a quiet settling of residue.