The other morning Carlos got up early because he had to be
in court that morning for a translation, and I lazed in bed while he showered
and such. I awoke to hear him calling the cats to breakfast. I stretched and
yawned and slowly opened my eyes and then heard a crash and a …
“Oh f*ck.”
I got up and stumbled down the hall, asking:
“What broke?”
“One of those ceramic pieces on that cabinet.”
And there it was, a small vase my Aunt Norma had given me
when I moved into my first apartment about a hundred years ago. I scooped up
the bits of ceramic, and the tiny chards, took it into the kitchen and tossed
it into the trash. Carlos apologized and apologized and apologized and
apologized, even though I told him it wasn’t a big deal, accidents happen, blah
blah blah, and I went off to work. But when I came home that afternoon I found
that Carlos had dug the vase from the trash and glued it back together; but,
you know, his eyesight. So the piece looked a little Dali-esque, kind of slumped
over a bit, a couple of pieces of ceramic sticking out.
And I love it, and I love him for putting it back together and
giving it a little more character than it might have had before. |