Grandma’s dish drops, splits into shards
Sharp as the knife slipped into holiday roast
Sharp reminder every morning since
Mother’s passing. Not immediately upon
awakening, but as soon
as cognition sets in –
they’re gone now.
And their friends.
Leaving us: their children and
(surprisingly) their men
without the wisdom from the portal
through which our lives began
and will eventually end.
After the first year’s markers, the knife always dulls.
Only stories left of a young Uncle shot down
over France. He sent those plates
before I was born. And left nothing