Sur La Table

Today we drove in your white Murano before
the snow fell, to return your parents cracked
glass tea pot to that corner store in the mall

with the name I can't remember
but will probably look up, something French.
And instead of standing

around looking bored, like you sometimes
assume I am, I traced the
pattern on the black paisley pot holder

that sat elegantly next to
the lime green fiesta towels
that caught my attention,

and I saw our colorful kitchen of
the future and the kids' faces.
Yours and mine were there too, happy.

While you pointed out, with confidence,
and even walked behind the counter to show
the helpful man and woman

that the new piece of glass, pulled from the storage room
was also broken, bubbled somehow from the
start, I skimmed the aisles and avoided the middle-

aged man who shopped alone
with only his two wrestling sons, to pick out
the tea pot that might pour chamomile

comfort into our cups someday. Without
a second thought, I knew that no matter
what may break or crack of ours,

you will never have to go it alone.
Then we gave up on perfection, laughed at
the long line behind us and took the bubbled lid home.