I heard myself scream at Sarah as I saw my favorite bowl crash on the floor in four or five chunky pieces. Her defiant eyes dared me as she raised it over her head. In a millisecond, it was done.
My look and scream clearly scared her as I watched her eyes widen and she pulled her face back a bit. I had even less time to decide what to do. I ran away.
In the bathroom, I cried and cried. I realized I was crying way too much for a ten-dollar clay bowl I had bought at a farmers market. In many ways, I was being ridiculous and Sarah’s reaction burned into my memory. What should I have done? I was glad I removed myself from the situation and let Brian take care of it. But I loved that bowl. It was Catherine’s bowl.
I had bought it on a warm spring day from a local potter at the market. The turquoise and purple colors made me happy, but more importantly, it was the perfect size for Catherine’s food in the mornings. When I bought it, I remember thinking she’d eat better from that bowl because it was made of clay and natural. Someone had made it by hand. I had pictured the potter spinning that bowl and imagined that the care in her hands would make its way to Catherine. She would feel that energy in her food, and it would bolster her and she would learn to eat better.
Call me crazy, but doubt erupted as the real villan as I sat doubled over crying. Could Catherine keep eating without the bowl? Certainly. But the hope that resided in that bowl crashed to the floor as well.
So this morning, I’ll feed Catherine from another bowl. She’ll eat as well as she is able from the new bowl. And just like every day with her, I’ll look for hope in a new place.