Amy Neill Bebergal
I lifted a spoon from the flannel-lined chest of motherís
heirloom flatware for 12, studied each silver utensil's
ornate variation, monogram, and intention. I barely
considered the knife—its shapelessness like a manís
torso, and the beveled edge made it hard to hold. I passed
over the tines of the fork with a finger—ordered and perched
to its task. But it was the spoon like a thumbprint I would
choose to steal. I did not know it as thieving, but the quick
tuck into my pocket and downcast withdraw would make it
clear to an observer. It was later, after a party when they were
being polished, stacked and amounted to 11, that I heard my parents
question the absence (did they intend that I hear?) that I remembered
my spoon, long past wandered from the set deep into my room.
So it was that I went (unnoticed?) to return it, in exchange for the knowledge
that someone in this house had an accounting of something.