A Soft Yellow Tag

I rolled toward the low wicker stool by the front window, where the morning sun was just beginning to climb the wall. Tucked underneath the woven rim was a forgotten yellow tea bag tag dangling by its white thread. I paused, watching it twirl slowly in the quiet room. With a patient nudge of my round belly, I leaned in and caught the paper square gently under my chin. It pressed flat against the cool floorboards, soft and still, smelling faintly of chamomile.