That Little China Chip
That Little China Chip
One day, my mother went on a trip and she put me in charge of my brothers and sisters. As an innocent 9 year old, as she went away and left us alone, I went into her bedroom and snooped in her dresser.
At the top drawer of the dresser, a small jewellery box peeked from under the soft, wonderful-smelling grown-up garments. I was fascinated by its treasures – ruby rings, pearl earrings, and my mother’s wedding ring, which she took off to do farm chores alongside my father. I tried them all on, filling my mind with glorious images.
Then, I realised there was something tucked behind the piece of red felt lining the lid. Lifting the cloth, I found a tiny white chip of china. I picked it up, wondering why my mother had kept this broken chip. Glinting slightly in the light, it offered no answers.
A few months later, I was setting the dinner table, when Marge knocked at the door, and came in as my mother gave her the right to. Glancing at the table, Marge thought we were having company when she suggested she’d come another time. However, Mum insisted and assured her we were not having any company that night.
She thought that guests were coming over because the table was set up with China plates, and because she would never want her kids to handle her good plates. Mum told her that besides that broken plates are a small price to pay for the joy when using them, every chip and crack has a story to tell. My mother shared stories during her life with our neighbour Marge.
After a while talking, my mother watched me starting, and gave me a wink. Then, carefully she put the plate she was thumping about behind the others in a place all its own. I couldn’t forget about the plate with the missing chip. At the first chance, I went up to my mother’s room and took out that little wooden jewellery box I found the other day. There was the small shard of china.
I examined it carefully, and after some studies I went back to the kitchen, and took down the plate.
One day, my mother went on a trip and she put me in charge of my brothers and sisters. As an innocent 9 year old, as she went away and left us alone, I went into her bedroom and snooped in her dresser.
At the top drawer of the dresser, a small jewellery box peeked from under the soft, wonderful-smelling grown-up garments. I was fascinated by its treasures – ruby rings, pearl earrings, and my mother’s wedding ring, which she took off to do farm chores alongside my father. I tried them all on, filling my mind with glorious images.
Then, I realised there was something tucked behind the piece of red felt lining the lid. Lifting the cloth, I found a tiny white chip of china. I picked it up, wondering why my mother had kept this broken chip. Glinting slightly in the light, it offered no answers.
A few months later, I was setting the dinner table, when Marge knocked at the door, and came in as my mother gave her the right to. Glancing at the table, Marge thought we were having company when she suggested she’d come another time. However, Mum insisted and assured her we were not having any company that night.
She thought that guests were coming over because the table was set up with China plates, and because she would never want her kids to handle her good plates. Mum told her that besides that broken plates are a small price to pay for the joy when using them, every chip and crack has a story to tell. My mother shared stories during her life with our neighbour Marge.
After a while talking, my mother watched me starting, and gave me a wink. Then, carefully she put the plate she was thumping about behind the others in a place all its own. I couldn’t forget about the plate with the missing chip. At the first chance, I went up to my mother’s room and took out that little wooden jewellery box I found the other day. There was the small shard of china.
I examined it carefully, and after some studies I went back to the kitchen, and took down the plate.