Special

“For special times only,”
Grandma said as she  closed the lid,
Locked it, and kept the keys,
In her pocket,
Safe,
Away.

“But when IS special?”
Mom said,
Tried to fish the keys,
But it was too far,
She stood there,
Disheartened.

And she just sat there,
Impervious of what’s special,
What’s kept,
And what should be out.
She looked at the drawer,
A set of pretty plates,
And saucers,
Locked up in an eternity,
Waiting,
For the special.

And so everyone looked,
And marveled,
“Ahh yes, it’s pretty–
But it’s for the special,”
And moved along with their lives.

The cracks are showing.
And so do the paints chipping.
Special never came.
Or perhaps,
It came along,
But never had the chance
To feel it,
To be with it,
Because it was in the glass case.
And the glass case,
It means it is kept,
For the special,
So like others,
Special moved along.

And so the girl.
Oblivious,
Or perhaps not,
Sat there,
Wondering.
Why.

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