Dateline: June 14, 2002
Sweeping the leaves out of the entry hall, I decided I should wash the dust and grime off the flower vases and other bric-brac. After cleaning down to that layer, I resigned myself to the fact that it is time to move the summer things back to their places, since we are months into summer. The large Italian platter belongs in front of the fireplace, but lives in the entry hall during the winters when we’re building fires. Now that the temperatures are climbing into the mid-90s every day, it’s unlikely that we will be building a fire anytime soon. Time to clean out the fireplace. This is how these projects get out of hand. Two hours ago, I was just going to sweep the entryway.
I build a fire at the slightest drop of temperature. Nothing seems more homey than sitting curled under a blanket on the couch, in front of a fire, reading, and sipping sherry. Then I get the craving to read certain books: Jane Eyre, especially when she and Mr. Rochester are first getting to know each other in front of the fire in the sitting room; The Valley of Horses; Pride and Prejudice. I’m much more of a winter reader than a summer reader. Winter is the pleasure of snuggling up with a long book. Summer just makes me restless, hot and uneasy–unable to settle to anything. In summer, even the blurbs in the Common Reader Catalog are too long to hold my interest.
The ashes are filled with bones. I always burn the chicken and turkey carcasses so that I can scatter their bones in the garden.
Dateline: March 3, 2013
Irreversible Damages
I turn the platter over carefully, saying as I do to the other, “Gently, gently. I’m just going to let it drain here and then I’ll move it when it has dried.” So he won’t move it and break it. My precious little indulgence from an earlier life. A platter I’d spent $150 on so that we could have summer meals of cheeses and pickles and olives. Or so I envisioned.
As I lay it down a chip flies off the back. I’ve broken it even as I’m reminding myself out loud to be so careful. I’ve broken it and now it cannot be unbroken. It’s ruined. Forever. And I cannot turn back the clock to the moment, only seconds before, when it was not ruined.
To comfort me, the other says, it’s just a chip. We can glue it back. It’s on the back. No one can see it.
But I will know it. All I want to do is break the platter into a thousand pieces, sweep them up, and throw the away. Instead, the mended platter will sit there each day confronting me with reminders of my carelessness.