Fostering

After he had left

I looked around the bright,

Sunny space

he had given up, and 

I looked at the mess 

he had left behind

Some of my 

most important things

were smashed, 

and some of his 

most valuable items 

were abandoned.

So I slowly started 

to pick it all up.

It was too much to hold.

So then I began to 

throw some stuff in the trash 

that I knew 

I didn’t want 

anymore. 

I made a pile of his things 

and I would, 

every now and then, 

go upset 

the mound of it 

and yell. 

I’d yell 

and yell 

as I righted it 

again, 

too.

I began to try 

and salvage 

some of my things. 

Just when I thought 

they were fixed, 

they’d crumble 

in my hands. 

This, too, 

would make me angry 

because angry was easier 

than sad. 

I would go to throw out 

all that was broken 

and then would stop, 

not wanting to believe 

they had to go.

It would just need time.

Then I could fix it.

Sometimes,

I would take

one or two items

from his pile and

bring them to him

to see if

he wanted them.

He would shrug 

and say, thanks.

But when I would go to leave

I would notice

they were back 

with me.

Instead.

And time and again,

I would try to deliver 

some of the things again,

not giving up, 

and always would 

return home with them.

He knew they were here.

One day,

quiet and thoughtful, 

I decided to try one more go 

at fixing my very important 

and broken things. 

I patiently fitted pieces. 

I looked at what was coming together

and would make small adjustments. 

Then I saw 

what would no longer fit 

and put those aside. 

Over time, 

what I created 

was something new. 

It wasn’t the 

important 

original thing 

and, looking at it, 

it wasn’t 

all together 

unfamiliar to me. 

It wasn’t what I expected 

nor what I was used to. 

It was here, 

though, 

in my hands. 

In front of me. 

And so I kept it.