I probably would have seen in the tragic ruins of tea leaves,
or the scattered stones and sticks on the garden path out back,
that the threads binding us were as worn and thin as those on
your grandfather’s sweater, which you still wear on cold evenings
when you go outside to smoke.
The threads were not suddenly cut by the scissors of the Fates,
or snapped in a violent tear in a moment of rage.
No, they were made brittle by years of wear,
on bodies, on nerves, on heartstrings.
I might have divined the break, the bursting of the stitches,
but the softness and comfort blinds us, so--
like that aged sweater—we wear each other out,
until the very fibers shatter.