Best friendships can be
fragile in first grade. The
dark-eyed boy lived in his
brown brick house only
two blocks away from
our yellow stucco, just
a short walk to play.
I accepted his shy,
unexpected gift of the
ceramic Navajo woman
painted with raven black
hair and azure skirt lying
in graceful folds around
the seated figure. She
wore a squash blossom
necklace, held a diminutive
basket of maize in her lap,
and smiled delicately.
As I turned her over in
my rapt, trembling hands,
she slipped to the sidewalk
and broke into ugly shards,
shattering our young hearts.
I fled home to Mom who gently
tried to glue all my sobbing
pieces back together.
a poem in my pocket 