In youth,
we're so easily distracted
by the price tag—
the pretty little flowers.
We don't realize.

The mirror.
It really can be.

Dads.
Sturdy paper plates.

We can't help but look at that plate and think,
Is it really time to throw it away already?
Can we get a few more uses out of it?

The whole thing just feels like a shame.

We see it for what it is.
And it reminds us
of what WE are.

Getting used.
Soiled.
Broken.
Unwanted.

And we can't help but think—
F#@k. We're next.

As we age,
watching ourselves break down,
we stare
at that plate—
thick, rimmed,
meant to last
a little longer
than its cheaper cousins.



Wait—
Is it really time already?
Can’t we rinse it?
Is their a rack to let it dry on ?  
Just once more?
Maybe twice?

It feels like a waste.
We know what it is.
Who or what is the  vessel ?
Used.
Soiled.
Still holding shape.
Still trying.

And suddenly—
we know ourselves,
in it.

Dads.
Sturdy paper plates.
Some are reliable.
Quietly bending under the weight.
not so much, to impress
as a hope
to endure.

Just used,
you know ?
For a guy who doesn't work a desk job
and never has
another tie
for your  Fng birthday.

So yes. we may sag.
We crease at the edges.
Grow soft in the middle.

And they look at us
like they do that plate...

Is it still good?
Still worth keeping?
Or has it had its time?

How much time  passes?
When or if they ever realize...

God.
We're next.

As the years pull us apart,
we feel it,
the breakdown.
The slow,
uninvited fade
into the background noise
of ineffectual Sunday afternoons.

Unneeded.
Uncelebrated.
Unloved.

some thing has served its purpose
and is now just
....in the way ?

A rare hug
the true currency of a life
he never chose
but never walked out on, either.

(You're welcome.)