So Many Broken Things

 

So Many Broken Things

So many broken things.

This woman's voice is like cracked glass.

I never throw anything away, that's why.

Everything can be a memory.

This song makes me think of my grandmother.

Sea shells, a tiny key.

Never heard of this singer before.

"There is no pain any more".

Voice like torn silk.

Too many sleepless nights.

A 20-drahma note, some Italian lira, in coins.

I never knew I had those.

They say she is the mother of Gypsy soul. 

Family photos.

My grandfather never came back from the war.

He spent the rest of his life in exile.

Some letters, a comb.

Birthday cards.

If she could kiss his lips one more time.

Some jewellery.

The flowers I wore in my hair on our wedding day.

She is living in a dream now.

A wine cork.

My grandfather died in the street,

among strangers.

He was 55.

She never saw him again.

A button, why did I keep it?

I am 54 now.

Shiva and Ganesh.

"When you die tomorrow", she says.

This is where she has changed the text. 

Zen stories and pressed flowers.

It should be "When I die tomorrow."

I need to throw these broken things away.

The violin is crying.

No pain. Except her wounded heart.

She has changed the text

and now it is my grandmother's story.

When you die tomorrow, I wish I could kiss your lips one more time.

So many broken things.

Or maybe we are all inside

this woman's dream

and there is no pain

any more.

GloPoWriMo Day 10