Posted: February 8, 2017 in Poetry

“But you don’t have any bread,”
she said.
[Brow furrowed in genuine concern]

“I do.”
(I didn’t)
[Reassuring smile]

“But is it the crusty type?”
[Clutching a tissue tightly]

“Of course, Grandma. Crusty. Just how you like it.”
[My hand on top of hers]

“That’s good,”
she said.
[A flicker of relief]

I kissed her cheek, damp with tears.

We both knew this would be the last time.

I walked away.

My heart breaking over unbroken bread.


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