The Bowl: A poem

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Oh, bowl of mine,
You ain’t that pretty.
You’re from another time
When lots of people were named Betty.
Still, if you broke?
Well, I wouldn’t be happy.
You belonged to my folks
Which is why this bad poem is about to get sappy.
When I look at you, 
I don’t see a 70s circle of brown.
I see you like a timeline of food.
Turning my frown upside down.
You remind me of love,
You remind me of my parents.
Which is why people out of the way I’d shove,
If I ever saw you at a store on clearance.
Pretty sure they bought you in ’72.
An era of thick mustaches, tinted glasses and plaid.
With love, they prepared food in you
And fed it to me when I was good (and when I was bad.)
When I see you, I think of my carefree youth,
A time when I was so tiny, sassy and dependent
I think of you holding my favorite “melted corn” (what I called creamed corn- the truth)
It’s crazy- you are so remniscent.
You also remind of my caring and loving mom that I’d beg
To let me help her make breakfast.
So, she’d give me a spoon and crack into you lots and lots of eggs
That I could stir, stir, stir while pretending to be my parents.
You also remind me of imagination and chocolate ice cream
And times with Lisa, my younger sister.
We’d share it at the butcher block table & dream,
Of a day when we’d be older, wiser & richer.
So, though you aren’t a gorgeous sight,
I will always, always keep you close by, 
You remind me of happy, in-the-way-back-past family times,
And inspire me make good, positive memories for the two boys of mine.

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