Additional felicitations for another trip around the sun.
Well, dang. Thawed out some waffles this morning, and heated some maple syrup in our favorite little cream-colored pitcher. We found this little guy 28 years ago at a Salvation Army store in Virginia, when we were still courting. No visible brand name or anything, but it looked rather old-timey and had a nice unpainted floral relief on it. Nice lines, probably designed to be a creamer. We’ve had many fine pancake, waffle and French toast breakfasts with that pitcher doing yeoman duty all over the world. Much like our first cat, it survived moves from Virginia to Portugal, then on to Mali, then to Uganda and up to Alaska, and finally to our home in Portland.
This afternoon, my wife decided to make a quiche for dinner. I helped her with the makings, and glanced at the dish drainer, thinking “I should really empty that out.” The little-pitcher-that-could was sitting on the counter in front of the drainer, rather than in it. As my wife was cleaning up from the quiche makings, she washed the cheese grater and laid it on top of other stuff already in the basket. From the corner of my eye, I saw it start to slide.
Now normally, even at my advanced state of decrepitude, my ability to catch falling objects is second to none. Lightning reflexes has always been an apt description throughout my life. But in this case, I was one step too far away and had to watch as our little friend fell to its death, shattering in pieces far too many, and way too small, for any chance of a second gluey life. We were both silent as we swept it up and slid it into the garbage.
On this eve of the second year since my son’s death, it seemed somehow symbolic to me of how things begin so fresh and can end so abruptly, and how you just have to sweep up the broken pieces and try to move past it all. Way too maudlin, I know.
Hope you all have a great day and a good week ahead.