Patricia Coral


Today I saw a spoon in my purse and it reminded me of you. A spoon. Your spoons were burned at the bottom, a black uneven circle. Arched. When you could bend them. When they were malleable enough. In your strong hand, it was probably easy. The spoons surrendered to your strength, your drive, your intensity, your will. Me in your hand, a spoon. Burned inside with dark uneven circles of loss, hopelessness, and grief. You had that power, that irresistible combination of forces, of evil and tenderness. Your spoons felt like daggers on my chest.


The spoons sometimes came out of socks, other times out of your underwear. Sometimes I found them inside a drawer or in the yard. The other day I also remembered the syringe I found prepared inside our bathroom. Filled with what you burned in one of your spoons. Ready to enter your veins and help you get away from me or your world or your reality. Spoons and syringes, the perfect match. You and I, a failed attempt. Mismatched.


Today I remembered you because of a spoon in my purse. And I think about the silverware I bought for our house when we got married. I wanted it to be perfect. To cook for you, to have guests. I bought two boxes instead of one to have enough, even though they were out of our budget. You used up the spoons one by one, little by little, until they all disappeared, the same way our relationship faded away.


Nothing is left of our love but a dinnerware set without spoons.


Patricia Coral was born in Puerto Rico, where she became passionate about words and obtained an MA in Spanish. Recently she moved to Houston, where the adventure of writing in a borrowed language began. Patricia is a writer of creative nonfiction, fiction, and poetry, but frequently her words find their home in-between.

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