Silverware.
Silverware continues on in our absence, every silent meal made musical by the light clink, the piercing scrape, the pounding clatter. If I cannot hold you at least I can hold the fork that once fed your life, stoked your fire. At least I can clean the knife you waved, angry at the way we turned from the fading light of your eyes to explore the curvature of our spoons, as if their permanence could save us. Once this knife is clean, so too will the stains lift from my conscience.
