There are two
matching red plaid dish towels, one
in the cupboard with the good china
in my mother's kitchen, and the other
hanging on the stove
in my father's.

I sometimes wonder if
they miss each other,
the matching set
torn from their pair
and the end of a marriage, and then I think
it is a shame; perhaps
they were still in love, perhaps
their separation was
out of their
control.

The dish towels,
I mean.

Maybe I should steal one
and bring it to my other home
so they can be together.

But then I stop and think,
at least
my parents learned
how to share.

This way,
they both get one to keep
instead of
all or
nothing.