Small Comfort

She cracked the soft boiled egg
and scooped it out, the yoke intact.
This daily feat was accomplised
using a thin, sharp-edged spoon
with a decorative handle.
It never failed
even when her hands shook.
Once it went missing for three days
before she found it peeking out from under the stove.
She was never so happy to find anything
not even her glasses.
Small, pretty, useful, not unlike herself
when she bought it at a church sale fifty years ago.
It hd been her breakfast companion every since.
As her life went away bit by bit
she was aware of clinging to such familiar things.

Her neighbor, a kindly man
kept an eye out for her
noticed when she did not visit her garden
though the days were sunny.
He found her in bed.
It looked like a peaceful death, he told his wife
if a bit peculiar
what wtith that fancy, silver spoon folded in her hands.
But, he supposed
oddities were to be expected with the elderly.

"Did you bring the spoon Home?"
his wife asked.

Bridget Harwell

What Is This Thing Called Love?

The Smitheys
a proper couple
grown round together
often spoke for each other.
Or, conversely
lips pressed, hands folded
Mrs. Smithey
would make a display
of generous silence.
They were well liked.
She for an encompassing smile
he for market tips and jokes.
Happiest apart
they rarely parted.
Until one evening
while telling one of her stories
he choked on a fig and died.
Surprised and angry
she was overwhelmed.
The unfairness of it.
After years of practicing their routine
she was made to start over.
Without him
her smile had no direction
her lips no story to tell
her nerves
no place to land.

Bridget Harwell