Listening to the Spode Bowl
I dropped the bowl,
the sound of the crack,
the shatter hitting the floor.
The bowl, Spode,
blue and white
fine ceramic,
mine through inheritance,
my mother’s
and hers before.
This bowl passed
from generation to generation,
lay in pieces on the tile.
I sat with it and listened,
heard my favorite uncle
ask that the stuffing be passed,
and someone saying, yum,
as the aroma wafted from the bowl
and the first bites were taken.
Passed from guest to guest,
around the long table.
The gentle scrape of the spoon
to get that last morsel.
I heard the sound of fruit salad at brunch,
friends gathered outside on the terrace.
Blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, blackberries
gently mixed together,
served with a silver spoon.
I heard the conversation, laughter,
and praise for the beautiful blue bowl.
I sat with it and listened,
heard the sound of my daughter’s voice,
still young.
Carefully carrying the bowl from the cupboard,
asking to use it on a weeknight,
with plain white dishes and a simple supper.
I fill it with pasta,
ladle on the red sauce
We eat, a family feeling special
on an ordinary night.
The bowl is gone.
I have listened deeply
heard it whisper memories.
I sweep the fragments into the dust pan.
Not read yet to part.
I put them into a box
place it on a high shelf.
Someday I will take it down
and listen to those memories again.
Author: Melanie Civin Kenion
Photo: Kotomi on Flickr
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