Little Yellow Bowl
My little yellow bowl broke today, its handle finally succumbing to 34 years of regular use and hot dishwashers. It’s not much of a bowl. Plastic, part of a set long gone.
And I was surprised at the rush of emotion I felt.
You see, my mother-in-law gave me that bowl. She gave me the whole set as part of a large box of utensils and bowls and dishcloths and other kitchen things her son and I would need as we set up our first home together. While many may not see that as such a big deal, it was. I was most decidedly not her choice for her son. And yet, she still did this thoughtful thing.
I use that bowl for nearly everything. It has a little spout, making it perfect for pouring pancake batter on a hot griddle or cake mix into cupcake tins. And every time I used it over the years, I thought about her. The rest of the contents of that box are mostly long gone. But the little yellow bowl hung in there, for 34 years.
My mother-in-law and I had what can tactfully be called a “difficult relationship.” She was clear that she didn’t want me in her family (up to and even after her death), and at the beginning, I was too young and immature to handle that well. And later, I just gave up trying.
So this morning, oddly enough, her birthday, I made pancakes. And thought of her. And the handle of my little yellow bowl cracked in my hand. And I got really emotional. I grieved for the relationship with her I always wished for, but could never have. I grieved that she left this world before she could watch all her grandchildren grow up, and before she could meet her great-grandchildren. I grieved for all that could have been.
The crack in the handle goes halfway through. I wonder if it can be mended.
And I was surprised at the rush of emotion I felt.
You see, my mother-in-law gave me that bowl. She gave me the whole set as part of a large box of utensils and bowls and dishcloths and other kitchen things her son and I would need as we set up our first home together. While many may not see that as such a big deal, it was. I was most decidedly not her choice for her son. And yet, she still did this thoughtful thing.
I use that bowl for nearly everything. It has a little spout, making it perfect for pouring pancake batter on a hot griddle or cake mix into cupcake tins. And every time I used it over the years, I thought about her. The rest of the contents of that box are mostly long gone. But the little yellow bowl hung in there, for 34 years.
My mother-in-law and I had what can tactfully be called a “difficult relationship.” She was clear that she didn’t want me in her family (up to and even after her death), and at the beginning, I was too young and immature to handle that well. And later, I just gave up trying.
So this morning, oddly enough, her birthday, I made pancakes. And thought of her. And the handle of my little yellow bowl cracked in my hand. And I got really emotional. I grieved for the relationship with her I always wished for, but could never have. I grieved that she left this world before she could watch all her grandchildren grow up, and before she could meet her great-grandchildren. I grieved for all that could have been.
The crack in the handle goes halfway through. I wonder if it can be mended.
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