I returned home to the kitchen the way it was left,
with everything laid out on the counter top.
It was such a mess,
of course it was;
we dropped everything as we rushed out the door.
A cutting board,
with apple slices now browned by their exposure to the air,
bananas now withering into nothingness,
and a knife,
dripping with the blood-red juice of a pomegranate.
Or was it her blood on the floor?
I breathed in the scent of the two day old pomegranate;
it was still sweet,
and it ****** me off.
I used to love my Sunday mornings.
Waking up,
getting out of bed
kissing her.
She was perfect,
and made even the simplest task,
such as cutting a pomegranate in half,
beautiful.
I’ve never seen her be anything except beautiful,
not even once,
not even as she grabbed her stomach,
where our beautiful flower bloomed,
not even as she screamed in pain.
She was the essence of everything fantastic, and whatever she did reflected that.
I used to love the smell of pomegranate.
It would wake me up,
and I would follow it down the hall,
to the kitchen,
and into the arms of my beautiful wife.
The pure, sweet scent reminded me of Sunday mornings,
and Sunday mornings reminded me of every reason
life was worth living:
Her
.
I was silent
as I began to clean the counter top off,
the apples went in the trash,
the bananas went in the trash,
but the pomegranate…
the pomegranate stared at me from where it was.
It burned a hole into me.
I picked it up,
and the very touch made me angry.
I couldn’t bare the thought of it being near me.
Its sweet smell turned putrid in my hands.
I threw it as hard as I could,
its path going through the window,
and the glass made a sound I’ll never forget.
But the fact was,
I threw it out,
and it was gone.
The smell of pomegranate
would never be here again
on Sunday mornings.
And neither would she.
I wrote this poem in response to a prompt in which we were supposed t let the pomegranate take control of the poem and signify something deeper.
