on the floor in pieces
grandmother’s favorite cup
now everything’s gone
NOTES
This haiku harkens back to what seems now like a turning point in my second marriage.
My wife and I had a china cabinet that we got from my grandparents, because they didn’t use it, and it was a beautiful piece. Solid wood, beveled glass. Heavy, solid, beautiful.
I needed to move this huge piece of furniture. I knew it would be difficult, but I’m always up for a challenge, so I decided to carefully move it myself.
I should note here that the china cabinet was in two unattached pieces and that the top piece, the hutch, was top heavy. Dangerously top heavy. Despite the fact that I knew both these facts, I continued with this folly.
I had only moved the thing a few inches when the hutch started to sway just a bit. It wasn’t falling … until it was falling. I put my hand up to catch it, but it was too heavy, and it toppled right toward me. It would have been on top of me, had it not been caught by the sturdy dining room table, also a gift from my grandparents, the china cabinet’s companion piece. As I analyzed the situation immediately afterward, I could have been seriously injured, and I feel fortunate not to have been.
I assessed the damage, and there were a few pieces inside the hutch that were broken. Not as many as I’d thought would be, fortunately, but one of the casualties was my wife’s late grandmother’s teacup. I had no idea the emotional impact the breaking of this teacup would have on my wife. There was no, “I’m just glad you’re okay,” to me from her, it was all about her devastation from my breaking of the teacup.
I get it, but I don’t think I ever recovered from it.