This is the ritual each
time I visit
my father's thinning hands
inscribe the air in an economic collation
of tools: flame pot spoon powder milk and
mug. A lifetime efficiency of sympathetic magic.
I sit in a silent halo under the
kitchen light, watching while my
father speaks words. The spoon dips, lifts,
sifts and stirs, stainless steel maintained
for years, glints and light clinks, milk and
powder measured in a perfected practice
but
that mug was blue when
I gave it to him as a child, it has chipped,
clipped, smashed and shattered - the ceramic
a speckled white from his
meticulous repair. I have given him
new ones and they sit in unopened
boxes because
he says
"they are
too nice to use."
and
smiles to himself.
I ask him about that and
he just says
"your great-grandma used to say
the same thing."
My father gives
me the broken cup.
It does not leak
but it is not easy
to drink from.