“Whose is that?”

My friends would ask

Arms stretched towards a piece of pizza,

Or somber piece of gum on the counter

Or a pair of wool gloves on a cold, winter’s day.

“It’s yours” I would reply

With not a moment’s hesitation

As if it was mine to give.

My family would all do the same

The object needed a home,

And who better to adopt than this person before me,

Worried about its well-being?

On occasion you might lose a cookie

Or shirt this way

But you didn’t seem to mind.

Because you knew the day would come

Where you would walk into the house

And catch a whiff of fresh apple pie.

And when you spotted the lonely piece

Sitting, nestled on the counter

You would ask who it belonged to,

Knowing all too well that it was already yours.