A Soft Impression

Morning light reached across the wide wooden sill. I stepped past the curtain edge, pausing to watch a small kneading eraser left beside a sketchpad. It looked grey and soft. I tilted my head, then slowly pressed my rounded base right into its center. The clay squished with a quiet give, spreading beneath me. When I lifted myself just an inch, a perfect shallow bowl remained in the rubber, holding the shape of my step. I waited beside it, feeling the morning sun warm my surface.