Only the Good

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 

to fend

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 

but shards.

-kls 2010

This was written in response to the picture above from Magpie Tales.  Write your own and click here to leave a link.