The Bowl

©2017 Carolyn Faubel

After the wedding

They brought her the bowl.

Arms wrapped around its sleek heaviness,

They delivered it to her house,

Laid down a tea towel and

Rested it upon that, with

Tenderness.

 

She stroked the glassy, curved interior,

Marveling at its weight,

Capacity, and

Beauty.

They left the heirloom

While she dreamed of

Sourdough, tamales,

Matzo balls,

And magnificent sponge cakes.

 

And when they asked,

(Because of course, they always ask)

How is the bowl?

It’s

Broken.

The shattered shards of her words cut deep.

 

But, I LIVED, she whispered, remembering

Her children’s hands patting the masa and

Laughing.

I LIVED, she said, thinking about

Mixing meatloaf millions of times, saving money for

A tropical aquarium full of beautiful fish.

I LIVED! she thundered, knowing

The dull, scratched

Bowl was more beautiful than it had ever been

When it held offerings of pine cones and pyracantha

In the middle of the Thanksgiving table.

 

They crept back to their shuttered homes;

Dusty candles with cold white wicks,

Unopened decorative tea canisters, and

Sealed commemorative brandy bottles

Decorating their safe lives.