He broke the china bowl
with its image of spiraling branches
twining around each other
time and again.
She had displayed it on the mantle
where it rested center-stage near the edge.
It was from her grandmother,
a woman he’d never met,
except in photos and tales of countryside outings
with leafy walks and lunches
on blankets she wished she still had.
He apologized but mentioned
once more
the bowl’s
precarious placement.
That night they kiss
and turn off their lights
without other words.
The bowl continues to be broken.
The sun rises again.
This is how it will be now,
each of them says
to themselves.