Shattered

Last night as I was cleaning up the kitchen, I picked up a small piece of pottery from Key West with a rooster painted on it that I use it as a spoon rest. As I was dried it off, I started thinking about the Key West chickens. It was nice to have the spoon rest--something I see every day--to remind me of our visits.

 About ten minutes later, I picked up the dish towel and heard a crash. I had forgotten that I left the rooster spoon rest in the towel. I found three large pieces and thought that I might be able to repair it, but then I realized that another piece had shattered into tiny pieces. I actually teared up. An overreaction to be sure, but I don’t have much from Key West.

Why do I break the things that are hard to replace? One of life’s household mysteries—along with what happens to missing individual socks?