Since I was born they have lived with us,
Dusty and old of age,
Angels and children,
Taking up far too much space,
Always staying,
Aging.
The unlucky ones show cracks in the ceramic,
Glue marks all about,
When they fall they give a scream,
But my parents always put them back,
Piece by piece,
Good as new,
Never knowing quite what to do.
They've lost their value,
They are broken,
But the love for them still grows,
Over the years,
For their cracks tell a story,
Either old or new.
My brother holds the oldest of them all,
For he is only two,
He thinks it is a toy,
And throws it,
Across the room.
As my parents sit,
Filled with anger and sadness,
They hold that little angel in their hands,
And try to piece it back together again.
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