Her broken relish dish is still on the counter.
It has been there almost four months.
oval porcelain with hand-painted roses
and cutout spaces for handles.
The narrow gold band around the rim has faded.
Somehow I can’t part with the pieces.

My mother and I were never close.  
She seemed content in her rambling house
on that fertile land while my dreams soared.
She died before we could become friends
and now this precious link is shattered.

I never put it into the dishwasher, used it just
for guests and always set it right back
in the china cabinet except for that one
time.  Maybe I could find another
in an antique shop, but she had my name
on this one, taped to the bottom
to make sure I got it.

Stop by a week from now, a month,
six months, it may still be there.

                        Loraine Brink