Handling Things

for anyone with a drawerful of good intent

public display of distraction

I’ve got 25 glass jars to be used both for canning and for drinking water, and a collection of mugs acquired between myself and my fiancé. In the china cabinet is my nice set of Franciscan dinnerware, handed down to me from my late grandmother on my mom’s side. The collection weighs around 30 pounds and I’ve hauled it with me each time I’ve moved, although I haven’t used it nearly as often as I’d like—saving its use for holidays and parties.

There was a while I used the same teacup from the set for my morning coffee. A small cup, with a handle just large enough for my pointer finger. Its coloring: a warm chocolate exterior with a vanilla cream glaze inside, which sat atop a matching saucer. When you set the cup down on the saucer, it made a lovely sound— cool and earthen. ceramic against ceramic.

For me, the first 30 minutes of waking are drowsy—slurred, sluggish, all slosh and indecision. My arms are weak, actions are heavy. I have a scattering of partially healed bruises across my shins. It’s a known fact among friends and family not to ask me anything until I’ve had at least an hour to wake up. At its most harmless, I stumble around while getting dressed and show up to work with my buttons misaligned. At its worst, I set rags on atop the stove’s electrical units and wonder why it smells like burnt cotton.

One morning, before work, in my half-blind stupor, I knocked the teacup from the counter onto the linoleum. The scattering handle and flying shards caught the attention of my cat, who believes anything that lands on the ground belongs to him. I swept him off the floor and gently tossed him into the bathroom, then locked the door behind him.

I turned and carefully—carefully—stepped toward the mess. Placed the hollow of the cup back into the small ring of the saucer. Picked up whatever large chunks I could find. Took a wet rag and wiped down the entirety of the kitchen, making sure not to miss even the most microscopic bit. My cat is clever, but I can’t trust him—he’d lick butter off the sharp edge of a knife.

the criminal: enticed

Incredibly peeved, I stood up, rushed to the bathroom, let the cat back out, fed him breakfast. The clock was ticking, and I had a time card to punch. So the cup and saucer went into the far corner of the cabinet, and I rushed onto the highway.

It’s months later, and the cabinet is still cluttered despite my effort. ( all the spare mugs i’ve said goodbye to. We have rid ourselves of plastic cups but not the yogurt containers) I’ve got more glass jars than I use in a week, but I can’t bear to part with them. In a few months, every thorn vine will be flushed with berries. I’ve gone through and removed whatever mugs were ugly or useless, but still the broken cup sits in the corner—wedged between two spyglasses from my fiancé’s college days, with black glass, long stems, and forever-smudged rims.

I’ve had it on several to-do lists, and told myself even more times I’d get it done. Still, the task remains incomplete.

There’s super glue in the junk drawer, buried beneath the hoard of pencils and rubber bands. And if that wouldn’t work, I could easily walk to Ace Hardware—it’s no farther than our discount grocery store. It would take me five minutes. Or half an afternoon, if I walked and got distracted by cats and windows and little piles in the corners.

With just a few minutes of focus, I could have the handle repaired. All that would remain of that morning would be a thin white spiderweb across the smooth surface.

Instead, it sits there. A shrine unto the gods of the to-do list.

Daily, I do the dishes. I make the bed. I open the blinds. I feed the cat. Every other week, I mop and vacuum.

But this? Fixing this feels tedious. Sickening. Like swallowing a stone and calling it breakfast.

I don’t understand my apprehension. At work, I handle screaming mothers and crying babies. I know how to be graceful with strangers. I clean up blood, piss, and saliva. I scrape boogers off the wall.

I sweat—just so I can write about it later.

And still, I think I’d sooner pull the sword from the stone

than glue back together the damn handle.