Closure

I picked up a bread clip and put it in my pocket,

just in case.

The small plastic square with a slit and hole

lay there on the dinning table with no bread bag in site. 

What would it do now? 

It had fulfilled its purpose, kept the bread fresh until the last piece

was spread with butter, peanut butter, mustard, or mayonnaise.

Now it was just another piece of plastic

headed for the trash or recycling bin. 

Instead it went into my pocket

As a reminder of closure. 

I need something to seal a bag of memories,

to keep them fresh until I am ready to consume them,

before they become stale

or they consume me.  

Slices of life need order,

to be taken one by one and

spread with tears, or laughter, or regret, or contentment,

to be slowly smelled, tasted, chewed, swallowed, digested. 

Each slice nourishes, satisfies, and sustains. 

Funny thing about this loaf of life,

it somehow stays full. 

No matter how many slices are eaten,

when the clip goes on new memories are

folded and kneaded into the old,

to sit, to rise, to bake.  

There is always an “end piece,”

the one nobody wants to eat,

the one fed to the birds or squirrels,

or put in the freezer for thanksgiving stuffing,

the one that leaves the bag empty,

the clip on the table.  

However, if that final slice is taken from the bag,

spread thick with hope,
turned around and
placed back in the bag,

it becomes a “beginning piece” for the next loaf.

I picked up a bread clip and put it in my pocket,

just in case.