Empty Kitchen
My father spoke of my mom's love of the sunrise at her funeral, thus I dedicate this to her.
“Shoot!” The exclamation punctuated the sound of pottery shattering. My neighbor, Karen had dropped a cup. It lay in shards across the hard kitchen tile. “Don’t worry, it’s just a cup. I have others,” I say, fetching the broom and dustpan. “I am sorry, sometimes I’m just so clumsy.” “Ah... it was just an old coffee cup, nothing to worry about.” My knees creak as I stoop to gather the shards. Recognizing it, I pause, lost...
