The passing of a loved one
Once upon a time, my (step)great-grandma passed over. I was 6 years old. I remember being in my (step)grandpa’s TV room with my parents and aunts and uncles. I didn’t understand what was happening. And I didn’t really know my great-grandma.
I remember meeting her once. She was very old (to my eyes), and she was in a wheelchair. I remember feeling afraid of her, though I couldn’t tell you why. That must have been a year or less before the meeting in the TV room, where my grandpa was helping everyone get the different possessions of Great-Grandma’s that were willed to them.
In good, selfish, 6-year-old style, I was upset that everyone was getting stuff but not me. I’m sure I was crying. (*sidenote* – Dorcas Cheng-Tozen taught me there is such a thing as a highly sensitive person, and it was such a fucking relief. Anyhoo…) So my grandpa, he grabbed a beautiful crystal pitcher and put it in my hands. He told me he thought (Great)Grandmother Grace would want me to have it.
My six-year-old sense of justice was appeased. And I kept that pitcher through my childhood. I think I kept fake flowers in it in my room, and I loved looking at it and touching the textures on it from time to time. And my mom would brag to other adults about how I had this beautiful pitcher from my great-grandma.
Broken things
One day, in good childhood fashion, tragedy struck. Or clumsiness. Or some mixture of the two. In my elementary or middle school years, I dropped it and broke it. And I didn’t tell a goddamn person. I felt such shame at breaking it. It didn’t completely shatter, but the damage was done.
I kept the broken pitcher for a long time, but I was also terrified Mom would find it and find me out. Finally, I threw it out. I buried it deep in the trash can before taking it to the curb with the rest of the trash.
And I didn’t tell a goddamn person. I think I was in my forties when I finally told Mom. (I’m 46 now.)
Found treasure
My birthday was April 24, so I was still in celebration mode last Saturday. After leading a yoga practice, participating in a park clean-up, and participating in a wonderful Books & Breakfast event, I chose to do some thrift shopping. At stop #1, I picked up some picture frames to use with my art and a book. At stop #2, no finds.
Driving towards home, I rather abruptly decided to stop at one last place. I was in the middle of three lanes, ready to turn left towards home. Instead, I cut across two lanes of traffic to turn right to the thrift store. (In good, Florida driving style.) I took a look at some of their furniture, because I’m looking for a cheap wood cabinet with glass windows to use as a free little library. Then I headed to the bric-a-brac and home goods to see if I could find anything useful.
That’s where I saw it. I took a picture and sent it to my mom, asking her if it was the one. I already knew and started carrying it around. She texted me back and confirmed. I worried about dropping it all throughout the store. But for $7.35 I brought the sibling to the original home with me. It might become a planter to celebrate life and growth to complement inevitable entropy. (i.e. everything falls apart)
Closing out
I like the idea of easy come, easy go when it comes to belongings. After all, nothing is certain and all material things could be gone in a moment. And also, I am a bit of a collector. I guess I’m a sentimental gal, along with being a visual and tactile one. Finding this in a Florida thrift store, 1,200 miles away from when I was first given one of its siblings seems like more than coincidental. I don’t know what the full story is, and why finding this pitcher is resonating something I can’t completely name so strongly. But there it is. It is.