A Mother's Treasure

by

Doug Larson

In sudden pieces
it lay quiet upon
the tiled floor. Shards
in loose mosaic scattered
like leaves to blow away.

"Only a vase." I thought.
I hoped. The room seemed
to breathe contempt like bile
in the air. Shards
in loose mosaic assembled
like a jury of my peers.

"Only a vase! Did you hear him?"
The chorus grew in spades.
"His mother's prized collection!
The toil of her life he trades
for a moment of satisfaction!"

Only my curiosity;
or was it, though? Perhaps.
Yet even now I wonder
if my logic conceals hidden traps
to betray my overt blunder.

The door looms
ever closer and more ominous
with every passing second.
The moment pending madness
as her arrival becomes imminent.

The car.
In the driveway now
the motor running now
it's not. The door latching
open, her high heels on the walk

and the door;
now slamming shut as if
to chop a melon into a basket
to the roar
of a cheering crowd.
And those footsteps growing loud.

The knob turns
and the door latches open
with bone dry hinges creaking.
Now she is here. Towering over
this shattered scene, not speaking.

She stands there quietly;
(eyes wandering across the room)
where the pieces of her life are strewn.
A little boy is crying, me.
She bends down to look

into my eyes.
She puts her arms around me
hugging me close. A warm place
against her breast, and lovingly
whispers, "It's only a vase."

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Is Love Enough?
by: Laramie Lee Roecker
from: Reedsburg, WI, US

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