Not That One

Not that one she said. It is my favorite. He stops sorting and looks at her hard. I thought the purple checked one was your favorite. She nods her head. Why don’t you let me sort these? He suggests. It is her grandmother’s house; her grandmother left it to her. He feels like she is not ready to do this yet. I’m okay, she assures him. They go back to sorting. Not that one! She says. That was made by my mother. It is pathetic, burned completely up on one side. He hands it to her. Maybe you should sort the potholders he says. I can’t do it yet, she says. Tears are falling. I know, he says, taking her in his arms. Written April 23, 2020 Contest: The Potholder Poetry Contest Sponsor: Craig Cornish