Like a piece of Mom’s good china set that never made it back,
Back into the cabinet.
Shattered into pieces, this hollow muscular organ lays
In the pit of my stomach
Like this shattered dish lays on the kitchen floor.
Torn is your mind, when a part of you wants to put it back together
But another part of you wants to throw it away and forget everything
Should I try? Do I use glue?…. or is there too many pieces
To start over again?
I can’t stand the sight of the mess I’ve made,
So I run, run
Run into my safe haven, where my eyes can be distracted
Or will they?
Instead, they fill with salty tears,
Like a spotless white bathtub being filled for a relaxing bath
The water slowly fills this oval-shaped structure
Until it reaches the brim, and the first drop of water falls down the sides of the tub
Then drop by drop, the water falls uncontrollably and wildly,
Like Niagara Falls in my own bathroom.
But I don’t pay attention
Why? Because all I can think of is how this hollow muscular organ,
This vital organ that should be pumping blood from out of my chest
Into the rest of my body
Is laying lifelessly in the pit of my stomach.
Running back to the kitchen, I stare at this precious dish of Mom’s on the floor.
No longer can I pretend that the bright beautiful sun is shining, or that the birds are chirping at
The purple and red crack of dawn.
I pick up the broom and the dustpan, and sweep
But this time I don’t sweep it under the rug,
Nor do I attempt to crazy glue Mom’s beautiful white dish back together
I sweep the mess up, and I throw it all away
Because the leaves don’t always stay on the trees
And the pain always heals
I have hope that someday, this hollow muscular organ
Will find its way out of the pit of my stomach
And back into my chest
Where I can learn to love, and let go
And Mom will understand that I never meant to break this dish of 38 years of age.
Imperfection at its best,
And a heartbreak that will eventually become true love again.