The Gift

Typical morning – rush and go,
All to keep up with the day’s flow.

Ready to leave, I glance in the mirror;
In my hand, the earring quivers.

A shove, a slip – it leaves my hand,
A million fragments scatter where I stand.

My feet brush the pieces to the side,
I scream aloud – no place to hide.

Of all the days, why today?
This was your gift – last birthday.

Brushing back tears,
I race down the stairs.

The day wears on, cloaked in blue,
My mind still reaching out for you.

This mellow ache that drags me down –
Was it the earring….or you not around?