One feeling worse than
hurricane shattered to bits:
Someone else did it.
By nature, I am a klutz. In my fiction, clumsiness appears as a common trait among my characters if for no other reason than it is a fault with which I easily identify and am acutely familiar. I often marvel at how many glass objects I still own for the miraculous fact that I have not yet broken them, but it’s only a matter of time. What’s even crazier is that I collect wine glass from the vast array of locations I have visited, so I often bring more items into my home. At a yet-to-be-known date they will be scattered fragments of crushed memories that slipped from my grasp, whether full of red wine or just being transferred from the dishwasher to the cabinet. Even more shocking, I raised two boys and still have nearly all my souvenir goblets intact, which possibly means the clumsy gene skips generations.
I suppose writing about the fragile, broken objects in my life speak to the nature of this category of blog posts, but in fairness to this blog’s author, not every item that has left my life can be attributed to breakable objects leaving my hands without my approval. Sometimes space, or lack thereof, contributed even greater to the cause of downsizing than my carelessness. Occasionally the desire to be rid of difficult recollections makes the separation easier, even if the object looks spectacular in my home. Whatever the reason, breakage leads the list of reasons why my once-priceless belongings find their way to thrift shops, donation centers, and yes, to dumpsters.
Lost You Like A Hurricane
On a random evening after work, while trying to squeeze past the dog on the floor, and the awkward angle of the living room furniture, to give my sweetie an it’s-so-nice-to-see-you-after-work kiss, I knocked over my glass hurricane. Adding insult to stupidity, I lined the bottom of the large pedestal-settled bowl with bits of sea glass gathered from years of outings on distant beaches, so when the hurricane splattered and shattered its broken bits across the tile, simply sweeping up the sharp shards would have washed away the remnants from a thousand ebbs and flows. Instead, I delicately picked out the brushed, smoothed colored flecks from the harsh, dangerous angles of the former, fragile dish.
I’m grateful for the salvaged bits of beach debris, but the oversized vase’s departure from my world wasn’t anticipated on this otherwise uneventful Wednesday. I didn’t consider if this object brought me joy (a gauge I’ve used since before the world knew how to Kondo), or if during every life relocation I wanted to pack it back in its secure, original box that I continue to hoist from rental to rental, or if knowing this would be its fate, if next Tuesday might be a more convenient date to knock it over and say farewell. After the mess is eradicated, the fond fragments sorted and saved, and the wasted glass, and even the metal stand, are placed curbside, I take a glimpse at the eBay offerings to consider if the clear thumbprint of glassware deserves a replacement. Based on the monetary value online, the memory value in my mind offers a far higher value despite its unexpected demise. It’s gone and I must say, “Arrivederci!”