Broken
It’s strange how things have a way of coming full circle in my life. It wasn’t but a few days ago that I was relating this story to a friend in an attempt to explain a feeling. But then, I don’t believe in accidents or coincidence.
An Anecdote:
When Jane was in grade school, her mother had a dish exactly like the one pictured above. It was a wedding gift. Jane was fascinated by the item. It was beautiful, and delicate, and she loved to play with it, even though Jane’s mother had warned her not to. She went so far as to place the dove shaped dish on the mantle so Jane couldn’t reach it. Eventually, Jane managed to develop a routine of climbing on furniture, balancing over the fireplace floor by clinging to the mantle, and taking the piece down to play with. I don’t know how Jane ever got it back on the mantle, or if she did at all–that part isn’t important. What was important was the feeling of absolute grief when, in one of Jane’s attempts to acquire the dish, it toppled from the mantle onto the fireplace floor below, breaking.
Jane wasn’t upset because she was going to be in trouble for disobeying the rules, or for breaking something valuable. She was devastated that she had broken something that had significant meaning for someone else–something that was a visual reminder of a memory, something tangible that represented a feeling or idea. And she broke it. Jane gathered up the pieces in her hands and through choking tears tried to put the pieces back together. She was hysterical.
After her mom yelled because Jane disobeyed her, she must have realized how out of balance Jane’s tears were with the actual event. She took the pieces from Jane’s hands and tried to calm her down.
“It’s not too bad, hon. It’s only a dish. We can glue it back together.”
“But it’s not the same! It’ll never be the same. It’s broken forever! I broke your memories! I can’t fix it! ”
Jane was inconsolable. It wasn’t perfect, but after some delicate hands and careful attention Jane and her mother glued the pieces back together. The dish showed only hairline cracks from where the pieces had separated, tiny lines that served as reminders that delicate things can be broken. Jane’s mother kept that dish for years, and though she barely gave the dish any thought, every time Jane saw it, she felt a shadow of that afternoon. It was a constant reminder that things can be broken and that once broken, will never be the same.
When Jane was older, she was walking through an antique shop and happened upon a dish exactly like the one she had broken so many years ago. At first she felt that same wash of guilt come over her, but then quickly realized that this was her opportunity to make it right. She called her mother right there from the store on her afternoon break.
“Mom, do you remember that Lennox dove dish? The one I broke?”
“Yeah, why?”
“They have one here in the store, and it’s identical. I’m going to get it so you can get rid of that broken one.”
“Jane, hon, don’t waste your money. I don’t want that one.”
“But yours is all cracked, and broken. Wouldn’t you rather have one without so many flaws? It’s perfect.”
“I’m not worried about that, Jane. Yes, this one has cracks, and yes, it was broken once, but this is the one I was given. This is the one you broke. This is the one that we spent days putting back together, together. You and I. I know you still feel badly about breaking it, but you have to let that go. It’ll never be perfect, but what is? I cherish the one I have, and every one of those cracks reminds me that while that dish is whole again, it needs to be handled with care. Because you broke it, I’ll never forget that, and I’ll handle it with delicate hands for as long as I have it. I don’t want a new one. I want mine. Ours.”
I saw this exact dish today during my afternoon break, and I couldn’t help but think of this little… story. Take it for what it’s worth, but Jane’s mother knew more about life than she did about Lennox dishes.
Write well.
