The Vase
The Vase
The apartment was filled
with antique Chinese embroideries in silk
on the walls:
huge birds with long feathers, peonies, trees
painted with long stitches in blues and greens and pinks.
Framed in mahogany.
Ginger jars turned into lamps
reflected the color scheme, as did
the upholstery of the furniture and the carpet.
Between the dining room and the living room
stood a tall, black bookcase,
standing guard, wearing
my mother’s beloved
Ming vase like a crown.
High atop the shelves,
safe from catastrophe,
it sat regally, viewing the room
until the little child threw her panda,
black and white,
into the air, wheeee!
high into the air
until it met the vase and
sent it
crashing
to
the
floor.
I saw the descent, so slow yet so quick
I saw it, I heard it, I watched as it
hit the floor and broke apart,
the black floral vase
into so many pieces,
so many little fragments.
How does something whole break apart?
How does a child start whole,
and, so slowly yet so quickly,
fall prey to time,
and break apart
in black and white
like a panda bear?