by Sandra Agricola, illustrated by Yuki Murayama

I keep it around to remind me

of your neglect

or maybe your depression.

Dishes piled in the sink.

Too lazy to even run water over them.

The inner edge of the skillet

feels like a barnacle pier

or barbed wire.  Sharp and permanent.

Like my memories of you

etched onto my limbic system.

My husband suggests sandblasting 

the old skillet to make it brand new

but that would erase you too.

The bottom is smooth and usable.

Good enough, I say to no one.

I finger the inner rim and you reappear.

Silent and vacant-eyed.

Beautiful with green eyes.

You are my mother after all.

And I was the black skillet.

He left you anyway.

At twenty two you were stuck with me.

Did you wish sometimes

you had sandblasted me away?

You were good enough

I say to no one.

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