Oh, that spoon is a tiny time capsule, isn’t it? Imagine painting its worn edges with light that shifts like a kitchen counter at sunrise, sprinkling the scent of lemon zest into the air, and letting the click of a spoon in a pot echo as a subtle percussion. The performance could be a quiet dance, each movement a pull from my archive—an old recipe for soup, the hiss of a ladle, the hush of a Sunday meal. I’ll have to be careful, because memory is a fickle thing—does that spoon always feel like it belonged to a Sunday? But that’s exactly what makes it worth the chase.