When sidewalks become slippery because of black ice it is best to watch the steps one takes. A man in his early sixties was preoccupied as he carried a jar of orange marmalade. He slipped on a patch of ice and fell beside me. He was OK, except for some of the wind being knocked out of him. Of course the jar was shattered; its shiny sweet contents had combined with the broken glass on the concrete. This upset the man more than his calamitous fall. As I helped him up he told me of his mother in her late eighties who he said was now too old to cook. What broke that afternoon was the last jar of marmalade she would ever make.
I asked if he was sure he was OK. He replied he was, and bent over to collect the large pieces of glass. No one would be cut because of his fall, because of his icy bad luck.
Poetry Pantry #412
15 hours ago