Posted: February 1, 2015 in Chat
Tags: ,

 When was she young?
All their life so fragile, skin like glass
like that vase kept in a private place, and found
packing for the Nursing Home.
A broken hip bone, one fall too many:
one more secret for herself alone.
No one knew the story, not her children certainly.
Towards the end of the war, it was, recalled from France:
“Only the once!” she swore. “They were collaborators. Everyone knew!”
“The things that you do!” Just something still whole, and holding
a wealth of light. It sent some her way. And the guilt, its flower
picked as she smuggled it away through broken France
in a suitcase. To imagine her, those fine hands
hauling the steering wheel of a jeep
behind enemy lines,
Vichy France; looting a chateau….
Something to keep marveling over.
And the vase? The grandchildren broke it;
the only ones with her small nose, her chin,
a liking for adventure, and football on occasion.

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