Some Thursday in Spring

I stepped on the foot lever, and the lid of the kitchen garbage can sprang open. 

As if it were a gaping, unwashed mouth, a waft of sweet rot launched into the air. I squinted and turned my head despite being grateful for the reminder I still have a sense of smell. 

That's when I saw it.

The dish was nestled on top of a compacted pile of refuse and a brown speckled banana peel. It was in two pieces.

Probably the boy. He's growing so fast he can't calculate the amount of leeway he needs for his limbs when turning. I don't wonder why he didn't tell me.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It was one of the good plates: a handmade piece of art, collected over the course of this pandemic from a roadside vendor. 

A not-so-guilty fair-weather pleasure, I'd stop by the pottery cart every Thursday to inspect the wares. 

The potter was always putting out new crockery fresh from the kiln.

Maybe there would be gemstone-colored cups with wonky handles. Or platters with squiggly edges and round, cartoonish feet. I remember how my heart raced when I found a scarified white ramen bowl with an outer rim of bubbly brown. It reminded me of the marshmallows my kids had learned to caramelize to perfection after a summer spent almost entirely in our backyard.

I'd fold a bit of cash and tuck it into the honor box, cradling my choice like a trophy. By the time the stand sat down for winter, I'd collected a whole set of mismatched pieces. 

The prize I'd chosen that last day was going to drive me crazy, but I didn't care. I smiled at the little splotches of orange paint speckling the smoothly curved center of the bowl I held in my hand. It was just the right amount of pigment to make it appear as if the dishwasher had missed some of the saucy spots.

It occurs to me now - as I wait for a rodent to usher in our countdown to spring - that this chaos of tableware I've collected is liberating.

It's changed all the rules.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

If one of these speckled egg designs cracks under the pressure of the piling plates or succumbs in any way to the machinations of a low performing kitchen appliance (that's best trick seems to be making the dishes get dirtier with washing) I will neither mourn its loss nor harbor resentment for the imperfection.

Or maybe I'll ignore the spots altogether. I won't even look, I'll just put the dishes away, telling myself I'll worry about them if and when we ever go back to entertaining guests.

Perhaps I'll run the dishwasher twice.

And as for this dish remnant I found in the trash? I have no heartbreak left for it. I'll just bid these shards farewell, and think about welcoming a new one, some Thursday in spring.