The Hidden Thread

A slice from the blade, crimson blooms on white,

and history pulses, sharp as the night.

Scrubbing the counter, thoughts pull me near,

back to the summers where family was dear.

A barbecue laughter, where stories were spun,

from whispers of joy, the secrets undone.

A single drop lingers, a thread to the past,

a line to the memories, unyielding, steadfast.

In this moment of slicing, the pain seems to sing,

a mark of our bond, the history we bring.

A wound tells the tales that we often suppress,

a testament to love, to loss, and the mess.