Even gluten free and ugly it speaks to me.
Of mornings filled with hope and evenings frenzied and lifted with laughter.
When the cold air makes leaving bed a contest.
You and I lay together with butter on our breath, tea and toasting a memorable now.
Let’s bake another loaf before our time has passed.
Charlie was a mobster.
He stopped by on his way to the city.
Next morning he took his girlfriend, Ginger, antiquing.
They returned with a crystal punch bowl.
“It’s so beautiful…stunning craftsmanship!” my mother said, thirty times.
“Enough”, said Charlie, “If you like it that much, it’s yours.”
Now we owed him.
Why did Ruth have keep lavishing the stupid punch bowl with praise?
It wasn’t even that nice.
Now he’s going to be back when he needs something and someone’s going to have to do it.
“Live each day like it’s your last, and eventually, you’ll be right.”
Empty chairs at the table.
Once filled with voices of children and forks clinking.
No more fights over who will do the dishes.
Odd to miss that.
It’s mortality, lately.
Not afraid, just wanting to make the most of what’s left.
Pretty self explanatory. Eventually we all become aware of our mortality.
It’s not such a bad thing if it makes you appreciate what you have.