Shards of Gingersnaps | Original Poetry

Like a thousand boomerangs,
shards of gingersnaps —
treats our mothers used to bake —
hurtled through the window past
our families carving turkeys,
shattering the glass
of Thanksgiving warmth.

Before, or after,
the glass shattered,
our mothers stopped
baking gingersnaps.

Like a thousand boomerangs,
shards of gingersnaps —
treats our mothers used to bake —
fell from distant galaxies
of what-if and
what-could-have-been,
and propelled our families
astray, each one going
his own way.

Did our mothers stop
baking gingersnaps,
or did the glass shatter
first?

In our milky memories
we retain nothing
but bloodstains
from scooping up
shards of gingersnaps
and shards of glass
in our bare hands,
wond’ring if tears
are inane.

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Image Source: Jennifer Pallian, Unsplash

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