Have you ever watched the cartoon The Tick?
Tonight, while dishing up dinner, I pulled my big spoon out of the drawer, and it reminded me of this quick (draft) of a poem that I wrote for the April PAD in 2008.
It's a big and made of plain metal
with a wood handle worn by use,
by washing. It stirs the pasta
or the onions, the peppers in olive oil,
it serves wherever it is needed.
How bright the sun poured
as we walked out our new door,
under the thick leaves of old trees,
past the jail, circles of razor wire catching the light,
and onto the broad boulevard,
or that's what it was called.
Our first night in our first apartment
together, our first morning
and a trip to the diner for breakfast.
We lingered by the tables
of the church ladies' sidewalk sale,
and we bought this practical spoon--
our first utensil in our new life.
After two decades,
I'm on the other side of the country
and the husband has passed,
but the second-hand spoon keeps
its place in the drawer, more
treasured than the meat fork it came with
or the glass bowl I bought
when I was twenty, even
the colander handed down
from my grandmother
that has a dent and is missing
both handles and that I can almost
let go of. The spoon stays.
Alas, the colander is still waiting for its next use out in the garden. But the spoon does stay.