The Vase

I fog the window with my breath, smudge it with my hand when I see her coming down the path. She’s all but six foot and her hair is as long as time and yellow like the sun which I used to know because it would come knocking on my window in the morning waking me from my zeds and zees. My teeth didn’t hurt back then, my gums, like raw meat, pain me in the night, and my jaw is a clamp on my head. Darling you look like your father but it makes me worry because you’ve got my jawline.

The wind rustles but my hair isn’t straight anyway, so I open the door.

Ma, what happened to your living room?

Oh yah.

It looks like a dam storm has hit!

I lost something.

What? Your mind?

Oh darlin’, you know I’m too young for that.

What did you lose?

Just an old thing. Anyway, what’s for lunch?

What old thing?

Oh nothin’, don’t matter.




Yah, she’s my pretty girl and she’s all smart like a cookie with her hair as long as time and eyes like a hawk; that’s why I had to hide the vase and the words from her mouth or she might have choked when she tried to swallow them; I stole those words and turned them in to lunch, in to sandwiches.

A vase can’t be speaking to my one and only daughter after I’m gone; a vase can’t be saying ‘Made In Sweden’ when this ole gal married the local potter.

But there’s my girl, with hair as long as time and yellow like the sun that used to come knocking on my window and wake me up from a long sleep, a long dream.