My Mother's Bowl
Pierce was the one who in the end broke my mother's bowl. It once sat high above the cold granite countertops in her kitchen, directly from the antique dealer. The artist's stamp on the bottom was visible for a brief second as my mother's birdlike arms placed it atop her custom walnut cabinet. I recall little of the transaction other than that I approved of the purchase.
My mother, who had grown up in the middle-class, had tastes that, if allowed to flourish without the presence of the decorator, veered toward the ornate and dreaded noveau riche. This bowl was classical, handmade, and absurdly expensive, the perfect trophy of the lifestyle my father had granted us.
The bowl sat in that same place for two years, unused, apart from ritual dustings by the cleaning lady.
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