POEM - The Mold is Just an Excuse

It must be September
I think as the conversation veers once again
To my mother's favorite seasonal topic
"Do you still have my shortbread mold?
     You know, a lot of people say it just isn't Christmas
          Until they have my shortbread
               And I just don't see it anywhere...."

I returned it nearly a decade before
Made a big ceremony out of it
Made sure there were witnesses
Should have taken a photo
Maybe that's where I went wrong....

Of course she knew right where it was in April
She had just found it doing Spring cleaning
Probably why it is lost now
It is with the Easter decorations
Or maybe the Independence day ones
Or the sewing
     Or the laundry
         Or the old newspapers

It is just an excuse
To cover her nagging suspicion
Based on intrinsic evidence
That her cooking isn't what it once was
That age is catching up to her
And her old stand-byes
Are starting to desert her
Like her memories
Fading off and hiding away
Niggling the corners of her vision
Flashes here and there just to make it worse

"No mom, I returned it already
But I will check once again
Maybe when I visit I can bring you a new one."

She tells me not to bother
She will just keep looking
Besides the old one was seasoned just right
And it takes too long to get a new one proper
And butter is getting so expensive
Plus it is an awful lot of work
Probably just as well
     You never gave it back . . .