Glue
Impatient fingers let my favourite plate slip to the floor. It lies in two moon shaped pieces now; one side on the wax, the other on the wane. Maybe I can restore it to a full moon; a perfect circle, or maybe not. Though I may use the best glue to fit the pieces together, I will always know there has been a break, even if it is barely discernible.
Frank is not broken. He is wounded. He reclines propped against his hospital pillows; a king with a crown of dense peppered hair and dagger eyes which are aimed at me as I step over the fine line between corridor hubbub and private room. Words stab. I am unceremoniously dismissed from his court. I have been judged remiss. He has languished here for the past three days, or is it four? Seems I have hurt him even more than the impatient fingers that puncture his lung on cue each year that I have kept his company.
'Thoughtless', is the word I believe he thrusts at me. I take that out to the corridor holding my rejected pride and useless offering of flowers. Deep breaths for rage control allow insight. I turn back in an effort to try to glue this rift back together. I am asking Frank to reconsider me. He drags his IV pole to the elevator. We have a coffee two floors down. We mend.
The moon still glows, a not so perfect orb in the night sky with its pits and hollows and barely discernable cracks.
© grapher Feb. 2016
