Today, it’s great at holding memories … water, not so much.
I heard the clatter from my perch in my office, but I didn’t give it much thought. It wasn’t until I came into the kitchen hours later that I noticed exactly what the noise — well, part of the noise — had been.
“I am not going to cry over this.” I told myself. “I am not.”
“This,” for those inquiring minds, was a 1970s-ish acrylic cup with the faintest remnants of citrus decor that had mostly worn away after one-too-many trips through the dishwasher.
A ridiculous yet indestructible addition to our hodge-podge collection of glassware. You know the kind. I know you do.
But the more I said I wouldn’t cry, the hotter the sting of tears that welled up in both eyes.
Screw it. I am going to cry over it.
I’d taken this one cup from my mom’s house just before the estate sale. My sister had, too.
Why just one?
Because I knew I didn’t need a whole set of janky old cups. Heck, it could be argued by many that I didn’t even need this one. But I wanted it for the memories. I know, I know. I didn’t need to have the cup to have the memories. Yet, I felt I did.
It had lasted this long, so I felt awkward about sending it away now.
If I’m not mistaken, they came from my grandmother’s house … I have hazy, sun-drenched memories of us using them while swimming in her pool.
But now, with anyone gone who might share that memory with me (other than my younger sister), I’ll never know for sure.
But I digress.
When you’re putting the whole contents of your childhood home up for sale, you can’t help but start to resemble Steve Martin in “The Jerk” as he left Bernadette Peters to go start his new life: “I don’t need any of this stuff. Except this ashtray. And this paddle game. And this remote control.”
In fact, I resembled it so much, I had my sister take a picture of me with my random collection.
Enough of me. Back to the cup.
The cups had always just been there. Steadfast. Reliable. Seemingly indestructible.
Dare I say — just like I believed my parents to be?
But time marches on. Parents pass away. Cups get knocked off the counter and crack. Days start out like any other and then are irrevocably changed forever, changing us right alongside them.
The crack extends a good 75% down the side of the cup, rendering it obsolete. Well, I haven’t quite tested the theory. I just assume that it won’t hold water. It’s almost like I’d be even more disappointed if I tried to fill the cup up and it slowly leaked. Maybe it’s better not to know. Even though deep down, I do know.
Denial, as my mom said, isn’t just a river in Egypt.
Not to sound dramatic, but I wonder if I’d look any different without the crack in my heart — without these losses. Maybe, maybe not. As much as I hate to say it, I hope I’m a better person because of it. More mindful. More empathetic. More aware. But I’m also more nervous. More jaded. More suspicious.
I suppose all of those things can balance each other out, resulting in some net positive that I’ve yet to fully recognize.
Just not today.
I hate that the cup is cracked and can no longer what it was intended to do. Maybe it has another purpose that I’ve yet to find. Or maybe it’s enough to say goodbye to the cup, knowing I used it. I enjoyed it. I loved it. It’s done its job. Perhaps deep in my cabinet, there‘s another cup that will flood me with memories and bring a smile to my face when I use it. And perhaps that’s the point.
Four Birds 