The Vase

The kitchen looked tired and worn

like my mother did,

the last time I saw her there.

I felt no nostalgia for it.

It was not my childhood kitchen.

It held no special memories,

I thought.

And then, 

I saw the vase on the counter top.

My friend found it on the Kings Road.

Bought it and brought it home.

I’d asked her to buy me something, 

a souvenir of swinging London.

She bought the vase.

I never much liked it.

Dark and bulbous,

it spent most of it’s time at my mother’s,

though she didn’t like it much either.

Then time stole it away,

took it from my memory,

erased it.

And now,

here it is again, sharp as ever

bringing the past home

as it stands empty

on the counter top.

It seems that her death 

invested in it a poignancy

that it had not known before.

I took it home with me.


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