But Still, You Loved

My fingers pressed against the ornate chinaware where our family once feasted on love. I pressed my tongue against the plate and tasted the marrow that gave me life, but the plate was empty and cold.
 
From you, much was taken before you were ready to give. Reckless in your young love for my father, you did not judge him as unworthy but gave yourself completely to his desires. His lusts burned for you, pure and hot for a time. I remember the happy sounds of cups rattling on saucers through your bedroom wall.

Later, his appetites expanded to others. Some nights he carried pieces of their flesh still swirling in the scent of his clothes. From the smell, I sometimes pictured his lovers spread across my dinner plate. They were never as beautiful as you.

One night as we sat eating eyes down, you shattered your empty plate against the table, raining shards over us.
My father cried. I cried.
You did not cry but sat silent and asked us not to touch the sharp pieces.
Later that night, you spread your broken parts over my father like a blanket, stitched in love and mercy.

That night I heard you making love. It was the last time.

With my ears, I heard the thunder of violence my father released against you the next morning.  With my eyes, I saw your frame stumble and break against the firm soil in our front yard.  As you fell, I saw our hands plucking bits of life from you.
So many selfish hands!
But still, you loved.