Broken

The mug is broken, and I am sad.
I mean, I am fine. It was a cup.
But I am also sad. The mug was a gift.
The mug was handmade.
It was the perfect shape and good at holding warm tea.

The mug was beside me
on the table by the couch, full of tea, still warm,
just right for drinking.

And his small body is wild
and his joy flings out in all directions.
And I love that.
I really do.

And feet came flying alongside him onto the couch,
and the mug fell,
and the mug shattered.

There would be no kintsugi with this one.

I picked up the shards and slivers.
I mopped up the still-warm tea.
And because of the tea,
and because of the mug,
and because my big old grown-up heart
is carrying grief on grief these days,
I started to cry.

First he said he was sorry, but then he got mad
If your mug had not been on the table
it would not have gotten broken.

Oh my love.
My dearest little miracle child.
My precious. My heart.

I understand.
It is so hard to cause harm.
It is so painful to realize
that your actions can cause pain.

But here is what we are not ever
ever, ever going to do. We will never tell the ones we hurt
That they were in the way of our flying feet

Because I cannot tell him that I have never broken anything beautiful
I cannot tell him that the wildness of my body
has never shattered something precious

I can guide him to apology, to compassion, to the attempt of repair,
even when there can be no reconstruction.
I can show him a place where remorse does not become blame

I held him and I told him I was not mad.
I told him that I loved him and that

I am sad. Because I used to have a mug,
and now it is broken. I held him.
It’s okay baby, I said, I am fine.
and

it is okay to be sad
when something beautiful
is gone