Prompt: Write a story that involves broken dishes. – Try to write it as a stream of consciousness.
(Prompt from 627 things to write about.)

My mother broke every plate in the house that day. Not just the worn, chipped, and faded ones that we used everyday; the fancy ones hidden in the confines of the china cabinet met a bitter end in the same way as their less fashionable counterparts.

What surprised me was not the smashing, cracking, and breaking sounds emanating from various sections of the house, but the look of pure determination on her face. No tears escaped, no angry yell.

Once the cupboards and cabinets had been emptied of every plate, bowl, glass, and gravy boat, my mother looked lost. Every room was scoured for stragglers that had been spared from the initial rampage. Room by room.

My room: A glass half filled with orange juice. The bathroom: a plate the soap perched on. The living room: My lunch, untouched, was the next to go. I followed my mother into the last room, their room. I could see her eyes hungrily scanning the scene.

I’m still not sure who saw it first but our reactions were the same. There on the bedside table was the mug, his mug. Chipped, faded and still filled with room temperature coffee. It looked so normal, even though it was the last piece of dish ware in our home.

That was the moment everything changed, everything was real. The house was filled with shattered pieces of our life and we just sat there holding a coffee mug and weeping. That was the day my father died.




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