Shattered

My memory of the day is just slivers of moments. Someone was with me, but I don't recall who. From the front porch where I just finished a cup of coffee, I walked up to a tree, an oak, with the purple mug in my right hand. In a quick swing the cup shattered into shards and chunks. My heart was broken. I cried. May 11, 2005

Today, walking in the yard, a purple chip, the size of a paper clip, caught my eye. The oak tree has a diameter of 19 inches. It slants slightly to the south--probably bent, but not broken, by the northeast winds that blew when the hill was surrounded by corn and not these houses. At the base lies two shards of the purple mug. One piece is impressed into the ground by an 1/8 of an inch. Its depth showed me some time had passed. I tugged it out with my finger tip. The chip resisted. I left it.

How deep will the chunk bury itself in the dirt? Will a future occupant of this home find it? Just a shard of purple ceramic clay to the finder? Maybe he'll wonder how the sliver came to rest at the base of the oak tree -- seven steps from the front porch. A broken heart. I miss my son.

Peace
Tom