Clearing Out the Condo

It’s junk, says my sister, and bags it,

But my face must have wobbled.

She gives a slight shrug and pulls it back out—

A curly-rimmed piece of murky blue glass:

Too small for a vase,

Too big to hold candy,

Too plain to admire.

Yet I recall Mom’s freckled hand,

Reddened from subs and prickled from quilting,

Lowering that odd curio to my level

And placing it in my five-year-old grasp.

On overcast days, she filled it with water

To slake the thirst of my porcelain ponies,

Wearied of excessive rug cantering.

The summer blossoms I picked in the field—

Stems bent, bedraggled and wilting—

She displayed in it as if they were roses.

Once, I fell down the stairs, and she white-witched a brew

In that blue-glass cauldron to cure all my scrapes.

Her magic was pure and effective.

I’ll keep it, I say to my sister,

And I wrap it in tissue and carry it home.

From time to time, I hold it aloft,

Searching for Mom in an old piece of glass—

A curly-rimmed piece of murky blue glass:

Too small for my love,

Too full of fond memories,

Too precious to lose.