SHATTERED

  
    Our home was a symphony of chaos, a joyful whirlwind of laughter, spilled drinks, dropped food crumbs, and my younger brother, Eddie’s, incessant mischievous antics. Despite the chaos, a sense of love, warmth, and contentment permeated every inch of our home.  At the center of this happy mess, nestled on top of my grandmother’s buffet, stood a testament to my parents’ marriage—a magnificent lead crystal vase, a wedding gift to


Mother from her dear friend, Robbie Hilliard. Its delicate curves and intricate designs caught the light streaming through our living room window and scattered tiny rainbows across the walls.

As a young girl, the vase mesmerized me with its ability to capture the sunlight and transform it into a kaleidoscopic display of colors. I often sneaked into the living room just to admire it from afar, dreaming of the day when I would have something equally beautiful to call my own. Mother treasured the vase, and I remember watching her carefully dust and polish it, her large, but gentle hands caressing the vase’s smooth surface. Mother often told me stories of how her friend had gifted her the vase on her wedding day; how the vase, filled with white roses, adorned the centerpiece of the reception table.  She described the sparkle of the crystal reflecting the laughter and joy of the guests. I closed my eyes trying to imagine the wedding scene and the warmth of the celebration emanating from the vase itself.

My brothers were a rowdy pair, frequently rough housing in the living room, often dangerously close to Granny’s buffet and Mother’s lead crystal vase.

“Stop your rough housing!” Mother exclaimed, snapping her dish towel at them while sending them a disapproving look—actions that usually deterred their rowdiness.

One day, in the midst of a particularly rowdy game, my younger brother grabbed my doll from my arms.

“Bet you can’t catch me,” he shouted and took off running. Despite my better judgment, I accepted his dare and ran after him. As we rounded the corner, my stray elbow ran into the corner of the buffet knocking over the vase. It crashed to the ground, shattering it and my heart into a million pieces.

I stopped dead in my tracks, horrified and speechless. I still remember the look of disappointment and stoic devastation on Mother's face as she held back tears,

silently picking up the shattered pieces of her treasured vase and dumping them into the trash.

“Go to your room and think about what you’ve done,” were her calm but edgy words.          “I’m sorry, Mama,” I said, bowing my head and following my brother to our bedroom where I laid across my bed and wept, eventually falling asleep. 

I awoke to the sound of dishes rattling in the kitchen and the smell of Mother making dinnertime preparations.  I eased my way into the kitchen and tugged on her apron. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’ll never run through the house again. Promise.”

“I know you’re sorry, Sweetie,” she replied continuing to stir together the ingredients for meatloaf.

“Do you still love me, Mama?” I asked, huge tears welling up in my eyes.

“Oh, darlin’, of course I do.” She stopped what she was doing and knelt on one knee next to me. “I may not like what you did, but I will ALWAYS love you. You understand the difference?”

“Yes, Mama,” I think so, I replied staring into her loving doe-like eyes. In that moment, I felt deeply reassured and secure within the arms of Mother’s unconditional love—a love that knew no limits despite the countless mistakes and poor choices I made growing up.  To this day, I am grateful for Mother’s gracious nature and how she used my mistakes to lovingly teach me so many valuable life lessons.

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