Bowl

I heard a crash upstairs in the kitchen. He’d been doing the drying-up, I’d come down to get ready for bed. What’s happened? I called up. I’ve broken a bowl, he said. Not my bowl? I asked, going into an immediate panic as to what I was going to use for breakfast.

You see, we don’t have a lot of crockery. My fault, I like to keep things small, contained, and not crowded. So there is mostly one or at the most two of each necessity. Which makes the breaking of one a problem. But I’d calmed down by the time I got upstairs. It needed to be cleared up for a start. Nothing like practical measures to calm the nerves. Then I mourned it. My white bowl, that was becoming a little grey in its dip from all the washing and scouring. But I used it for everything, salad, soup, yoghurt and fruit. I have a favourite cup too and plate. I’m a puritan, always have been. But, I thought this morning as I made shift with something else, change is good. It makes one see the world with fresh eyes. And he didn’t mean to do it. And he gets so cross with himself when he is clumsy or ham-fisted. I don’t want to exacerbate that habit. It is easily done, things just slip from your fingers. Besides something new will come in its place.

I sorted through my drawers yesterday. All is tidy. Most calming for some one of my disposition.  

And look the sun has come out. What could be nicer?