My partner helps me move,

accidentally tossing my 

big, blue ceramic fox onto

the floor, gasping as we

watch him shatter to bitty pieces.

Each chunk of ceramic scattering

resembles an additional

memory we used to share.

Of course, he’ll apologize,

unaware of what

that poorly painted piggy bank

actually meant. 

He wasn’t around

when she and I painted it.

Three hours we’d spent on it

on a humid summer day

after running across 

the busiest intersection on 40,

stomachs full of coffee 

and honestly awful over-priced 

omelets, laughing as we

did our best impressions

of skittish deer. 

I’ll move to grab

as many pieces as I can,

gripping too tightly,

damaging my palms more than 

my color guard rifle

or her surprisingly weighty 

marimba mallets could ever imagine. 

I wouldn’t be angry at him;

My accident-prone partner would never

purposely destroy such a sentimental item.

He’d panic, rushing to clean up the mess 

of spilled coins and shattered memories.

But no matter the moment,

no matter the emotion,

we would always know

gluing that ugly blue ceramic fox

would never fix the mistakes.