" Utensil
While feasting
On venison stew
After we buried my mother,
I recognized my spoon
And realized my family
Had been using it
For at least forty-two years.
How does one commemorate
The ordinary? I thanked
The spoon for being a spoon
And finished my stew.
How does one get through
A difficult time? How does
A son properly mourn his mother?
It helps to run the errands--
To get shit done. I washed
That spoon, dried it,
And put it back
In the drawer,
But I did it consciously,
Paying attention
To my hands, my wrists,
And the feel of steel
Against my fingertips.
Then my wife drove us back
Home to Seattle, where I wrote
This poem about ordinary
Grief. Thank you, poem,
For being a poem. Thank you,
Paper and ink, for being paper
And ink. Thank you, desk,
For being a desk. Thank you,
Mother, for being my mother.
Thank you for your imperfect love.
It almost worked. It mostly worked.
Or partly worked. It was almost enough. "
― Sherman Alexie , You Don't Have to Say You Love Me