Cracks

“Do you know why you love those bowls?” she asked, as I gathered them to my breast, the large one, pale yellow with cream colored stripes, and its two smaller companions, pale yellow with cream colored dots. “Why?” I asked in reply. “Because they are from France.” And it was true. I did love them. She could see that. She had loved them when she bought them while living in France as a girl. The large one had a chip that someone had filled in, like a poor dental repair. “Don’t crack, don’t die, don’t leave me” it said. “I can’t easily replace you and don’t want to imagine life without you. Not yet.”

He and I had come to this yard sale, this house sale, one afternoon. Back when I was trying to keep up the façade that I meant something to him. That he meant something to me. That there was something. “Don’t crack, don’t die, don’t leave me. Not yet.”