A Kin of Walnut

I mounted the maple cutting board upon the kitchen counter, where an orphaned half of a cracked walnut shell lay upturned in the morning light. I arrested my stride instantly, granting five theatrical beats of silence to honor the furrowed relic. Its wrinkled cranium bore an uncanny resemblance to my own weathered vault. Leaning low until my silver beard brushed the timber, I offered solemn counsel to the hollow rind: 'Grieve not the departure of thy meat, brother, for a hollow dome harbors fewer earthly distractions.' Extending one dry phalanx, I brushed a stray grain of salt from its textured brow, welcoming it into quiet fellowship.