i flung guilt at you last night
you were digging where you shouldn't have been
(according to my unspoken mental demarcation)
unearthing that which i'd haphazardly stowed
out of your perceived purview.
so you broke an ornament
a doughy imprint of your hand
a memento from when you were an only child
the physical result of a night with the three of us
painting on your little table.
my nostalgic heart clenched at the crack
sure that even glue would not restore it
to its imperfect form
and instead of consoling
my voice manifested frustration and upset.
what i should have done
was grasp you tightly
show you how big your hands are now
in comparison
and try to tell you the words for a special night.
these things we spend time making
scheming, pinning, planning
they are just the things, after all
the point is not the result
but the slow deliberate togetherness.
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