Zebra Seeking Spoons

I wake with a handful—

not silver, not shining,

but counted,

quiet,

already thinning.

They sit heavy in my palms,

these small measures of living—

each one a choice,

a question:

What is worth the cost today?

A shower hums in the distance,

coffee calls my name,

a text waits unanswered—

each asking

for a spoon.

Once, I spent them freely,

like laughter,

like breath—

never noticing

the bottom of the drawer.

Now I ration carefully,

breaking moments in half,

turning yes into

maybe,

into

not today.

I learn the art of saving—

of stepping back

before the edge,

of leaving spoons untouched

like fragile heirlooms

for a future I cannot see.

There is grief in this restraint,

in the quiet no one hears

when I choose rest

over reaching,

stillness

over being seen.

But there is also wisdom

in this gentle holding—

a soft rebellion

against a world

that tells me to spend

what I do not have.

So I cradle what remains,

honor each small reserve,

and remind myself:

Survival is not failure.

Rest is not weakness.

And saving a spoon

is still a way

of living.