When I was twenty five
I moved to the west coast
leaving behind everyone I knew and loved.
Before I left the east coast,
I snuck into my parents house
and stole a spoon from the kitchen drawer.
It was not a fancy spoon,
but it had a distinctive pattern.
It was one of the spoons I grew up with.
It was part of how I often started my day.
I wanted something that reminded me of home
that wasn’t a photo on the fridge.
Something only I would know.