On just another afternoon the box arrives
3 pasta plates from a stranger in Mindoro
brown, green, blue: earth, foliage, sky.
I open the box, meticulously packed
carefully bubble wrapped, lined with
crisp recycled paper, to find two pieces
broken. It seems both funny and sad to me
as I run my fingers through the cracks
feeling my heart shatter a tiny bit too
in spite of itself. I take a photo in case
the nice seller allows a refund (she does)
sweep the pieces back into the box
take out the trash. Part of me knew
this would happen. But part of me pictured
an evening with friends, spaghettini
with garlic and shrimp, a cloud of butter
hanging from the ceiling. Wine until
our heads buzz and the truth pours freely.
That moment when I pull out the plates
from a drawer, saying I’d been saving them
for this occasion. How things like that
aren’t supposed to matter anymore
these days, but for some reason they do.
It is the the dusty blue one
at the bottom of the stack
that survives. It reminds me
of the ocean on a rainy morning
—the rolling, solemn waves.
I tell myself it is the one I loved
the most anyway. I run a soapy
sponge over it, polish its already
smooth surface until it gleams.
It winks back at me reassuringly,
in on the greatest comedy
and tragedy that we all find
ourselves whole, still here.
🌊