CRACK! tears begin
Wooden spoons contacting denim
I remember the sound
I remember the pain
I even remember the shape left behind.
She couldn't use plastic.
it snapped
split in two
rubber spatulas
they just wouldn't do.
it had to be wood.
sturdy, rough.
leaving that lasting imprint
on my backside
I am still afraid
of wooden spoons.
I cannot touch them,
and refuse to pick them up.
the coarseness of the handle
rubs against my consciousness
grating, moving along.
the memory of the wooden spoon
left splinters in my mind.
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