The Wooden Spoon
By Carmen Ruggero
Published: August 23, 2010
Updated: August 23, 2010



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