Dark and silky smooth, honed by years of use,
the wooden spoon rests in the palm of my hand.
Do you remember that spaghetti marinara?
You were teasing – I recall. I’d just waved the spoon
as I turned toward you, and I’ll never forget your face:
I’d splashed tomato sauce all over your shirt.
We laughed so hard, we cried and cried.
I kept the shirt in my box of memorabilia
right along with the picture of you pointing fingers
at that famous birthday cake – you know the one.
It collapsed with the weight of one candle.
I embarrassed myself to death, but you…
you smiled a crooked little smile,
and whispered quickly: “I love you.”
And that you did: you love me.
So I couldn’t bake worth a darn – so what?
You were the one holding my hand,
walking beside me on summer nights,
just window shopping – money was tight
but gosh, I loved the little gifts under my pillow,
nickel and dime stuff – treasures to keep,
always a lift at times when I needed one
and well… now I’m getting sentimental –
and would you believe I’m crying?
Because… well… the darn spoon just broke.
I look at the pieces lumped as one in my hand
and I could swear it glitters, but how could it?
It does though… it glitters, though it’s not silver;
it’s just an old worn out wooden spoon
but it sure shines with memories and
priceless moments only nickels and dimes could buy.
Carmen Ruggero ©2010