Photo by Jonathan Borba
There are no trivial gestures. Each day is summoned not by grand events, but by the smallest rituals: the pulling of curtains, the clink of a spoon, the fastening of an earring. These actions, repeated over years, become a kind of liturgy. They carry memory, identity, and presence within them. What looks like routine is in fact a quiet enchantment, a way of calling the day into being and closing it again at night.
Curtains
To open them
is to invite the sun as guest,
to unfasten the day.
To close them
is to drape the house in silence,
a shawl for the night.
Tea
Steam rises,
a fragile banner of morning.
The cup warms the hands,
reminds the body it is still here.
Sip by sip,
the world begins again.
Toast
Browned and buttered,
a humble sacrament.
The crunch is a declaration:
life continues,
even in the smallest bite.
Earrings
A choice made in the mirror—
silver for clarity,
pearls for softness.
Fastened to the ear,
they catch the light,
and with it,
a name spoken again:
myself.
Clothing
Not fabric,
but weather to carry on the skin.
A dress for courage,
a sweater for retreat.
Each thread
a quiet decision
about who will step
into the waiting air.
Shoes
Waiting at the door,
they remember every path.
To slip them on
is to agree to the day.
The soles meet the ground,
and the road begins again.
Keys
They rest in the bowl,
a small constellation of metal.
Cold in the hand,
they wait for your turning.
Each click in the lock
is an incantation:
you are home,
you are safe.