In my old chair, I scan the room,
see objects seldom noticed when I was younger.
A white vase shaped like a woman’s head high on a shelf,
given to me by my mother
to pass to my only daughter when I die.
My father, an adulterous husband,
brought the vase to the hospital.
Mom discovered one of his lovers gifted the vase.
Surprised she did not smash it,
transformed into a beautiful gift.
Sitting for a time that afternoon,
my mind conjures the future.
My daughter, tears in her eyes,
tiptoes up, grasps the alabaster face,
clutches it to her bosom.
Originally published in Communicator's League