The tea pot was laughing at me this morning. So I smashed it on the floor. As it broke into a hundred pieces, it sounded like a fit of giggling, then fell quiet. I didn’t sweep it up right away. Let it sit there all morning. It deserves as much.
It was insensitive: the tea pot, not my breaking it on the floor. For several minutes I had been looking for it this morning, while it sat in plain sight on the counter. How many times must I have circled it without noticing? When I spotted it, the curving spout was a smirk on its face, the handle like a hand on its hip; how it must have crouched there quietly in glee like a child hiding from its parent. It should have been more sensitive to my concern with my failing memory and loss of observation. This fog is making me frightened, and a frightened animal lashes out. Maybe I should stop taking the pills?
I feel a trace of remorse as I sweep up the shards of my once favorite tea pot and dump it into the trash, but comfort myself in the excuse that a frightened animal, by nature, lashes out.
I turn to the other dishes piled silently on the counter; “Any other of you got something to say to me?”
They didn’t.
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