For the fourth time in five years I’ve moved, and frankly I’m disausted.
The glorious thing about this particular move (if moving can be glorious at ALL) is that this time I am unpacking the boxes that have been packed up for a WHOLE year. I am finally able to surround myself with my treasures, with the remnants of a loving childhood and with the mementos my own children have left behind for me to guard. (aka their junk)
I have hung the high school graduation photos and the portraits and paintings that were hidden in a basement for a year. I have unwrapped the glass baubles, the blue glass, the yearbooks, my Stephen King books, all the pictures of my kids, the ceramic thingy’s they made me in middle school and the scrapbooks I have always intended to finish. I am using my mother's vanity, have filled the bookshelves with all of my my books and have created a home with the things that are dear to me.
But there was one thing that was missing.
I received only few items from my Baba’s house when she passed away. One was a three-tiered shelf that my mother gave her, and the other was a beautiful blue plate that hung on her wall in a prominent place in her home. My mother and father bought it for her when we lived in Nice, France when I was very young, and to me it was priceless. The story goes that my parents bought in Portugal and we never really knew WHAT it meant. Since we didn't have Google Translate, we never bothered to really check. We loved it nonetheless because it always held the memories of my parents.
My best friend helped me unpack, and broke the news to me at the end of a very long day.
“I know you’re going to be very upset, but I have to tell you something. The blue plate is broken. It’s in many pieces, and I’m pretty sure it’s not salvageable.” She held up several pieces, and I agreed. I took a moment to think.
I cried a bit, and then simply told her to toss them in the trash on the back porch. I was exhausted and crushed and didn’t have the energy. I came to the conclusion that it was just a “thing” and that I couldn’t allow myself to be crushed.
That was over a month ago.
Today Ray showed up at my doorstep with a package. He handed me a knife and instructed me to open it very carefully.
I did what he asked and there it was.
THERE IT WAS!!!
Somehow he had found it in the trash, decided to rescue the pieces and managed to find someone to put the broken memories of my grandmother’s home back together again.
That’s what a real man does, I guess. He reaches down, scoops up your tears and finds a magical way to turn them into kisses.