Today I was standing in my kitchen looking out the window at the bird feeder and I leaned forward enough so that my forehead lightly touched the glass. I saw my breath fog the glass so I stepped back to avoid making a mess, watching the frosted moisture recede like a bulls-eye getting further and further away and I sighed with relief, I don't know why, until I noticed my forehead my body, had left a mark of its own.
I stared at the little greasy patch until I was compelled to bring my hand to my forehead, which was dry, or maybe felt that way because it matched the moisture of my hand, but either way I didn't believe the mark on the glass even as I examined it, smudged it with my thumb.
And then I thought of finding my hair woven in the fibers of the sofa, in my cup of coffee, laced between the e and the f on the keyboard. I thought of how each time I take a shower, before shutting off the water the last thing I do is to run my fingers through my hair, and collect all the ones that have detached themselves from my hot scalp. Sometimes I come away with one or two but often my hand is webbed with them and I collect them on the wallΒ Β where they stick so nicely because they are wet. Looking at the coils of hair, bark and honey colored on the white tile I imagine how many have escaped down the drain into the collective waste where they will degrade in however many decades.