Smithereens

The mirror I have been hanging
for two years
now
lies at my feet
in smithereens.
The reflection
it had caught
careered me into shock.
Me, my mother in  a recent photo on the opposite wall,
and her red coat still hanging on a wooden crook beyond
the open door
to the porch.
That shifting picture, her face, her red coat,
made me think  once more
I saw her.
***
Ephemeral visions make hands jump
and now the mirror has
slipped from that newly driven nail
and lies,
in smithereens,
at my feet,
on the floor.
Trembling, I turn
to catch the image of my
transparent
figure in the
window.
See through.
***
In the light  beyond the frame
I see a solid figure lift our daughter to the sky.
He draws him to her in a kiss.
Only the fragility of glass and an open door
lie between that happy pair and I.
Driving a nail into my grief I abandon the smithereens
of flinted mirror to the floor and walk through
to join them.
The solidity of  definitions merge and I think,
later, we will sweep those pieces up together
like we have a thousand times before.

-For Steve, the always solid amidst the shock of the ephemeral.

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