Spiraling outward from the center of the day, where all the obligations stack like plates— my hands belong to six things at once. One hand holds the phone. One hand holds the future. One hand types a price. One hand touches the back of a child's neck, just checking. One hand is already tomorrow. One hand is still last week, unfinished, its fingers curled around a task I keep forgetting to name. The medical appointment is the eye of the storm. Everything else rotates around it: the music lesson, the subscription renewal, the thing I said I'd look into, the eight dollars, the twenty-eight dollars, the way a screen can feel like a window or a wall depending on which hand is touching it. Sunday is not a day of rest. Sunday is a day of overlapping transparencies, each one slightly misaligned, so the composite image trembles. I am the trembling.