Broken Mug

Tonight I broke a mug
one that I have owned many years,
sipped from, and gulped from
coffee in the morning rush,
tea at night
at my desk.
Tonight it slipped
through my soapy fingers
and smashed upon the floor.
And I stood there in shock
it was a small loss.
I liked that mug,
liked--not loved.
There will always be others.
But it occurred to me,
as I swept shattered fragments
from the bleak tile floor
that were I to glue it back together,
were I to hunt out each shard
and position them just so,
it would never be whole again.
Never be able to hold my coffee,
never capture my tea
it would always be a leaky mug.
I used to think myself the same
even though all the pieces were there,
never would I be whole.
Never would I be able to do
what so many others could.
Until you took my hand
led me to a mirror
and showed one by one
the cracks you fused together,
until they became invisible.
How you gathered each piece,
that I thought was missing, broken, lost
and put it back in its place.
You showed me how you made me new.
How I could never hope to do it on my own
How you had been longing to fix me.
How you made me new.