The butter dish is broken. It’s part of the set we got when we married, and after all these long years, someone finally dropped and broke the lid, as seems inevitable. And that’s that. The wonders of the online world, though, have directed me to a replacement site, and a new dish of the exact type is here. Out with the old and broken, and in with the new and whole.
But I can’t do it. It’s a butter dish, for goodness sake, but I can’t seem to let it go. It’s part of a history that means something to me. My sentimentality, I am well aware, is hovering in an absurd space that only builds clutter and a George Carlin-esque need for a bigger house to hold the growing mounds of stuff. But this dish, you see, was held and used by my boy when he was here. And the new dish won’t have been. The drinking glass he was using still sits on his dresser, collecting dust, because he touched it and placed it there. His laundry still sits in his hamper. It took me a month to take out his trash…and I did that only grudgingly. The truth is, I searched the trash for anything I might want to keep. The letting go is so hard that even trash has its value.
It’s pointless, I know, this need to keep with me the little parts and pieces of things he touched and used. I know with certainty they matter not at all in keeping him here with me. But my heart doesn’t know it. My heart thinks that butter dish holds a little piece of him, and keeping it here keeps him here. I can touch the dish and touch him.
So for now, we’ll use the broken butter dish. And that glass will keep collecting dust. And the laundry will stay in the hamper. I don’t know what it will take to let these little things go. My head doesn’t know much of anything at all these days. So my hearts is calling the shots. And my heart simply cannot let go. Every little thing is a big thing right now. Every little thing is … everything.
