I spent hours making a rainbow cake only to drop it in the floor. I decided I would salvage what I could for cake pops. But the colors ran together until they were indistinguishable. What once was beautiful and appetizing became an unsavory ball of mush. All I can think is how this cake is a mirror for my life.
There’s a meme/fact/Tumblr screenshot floating around the internet right now that tells of how the Chinese fill in cracks in pottery and dishes with gold. Your brokenness only makes you beautiful, these posts say. I don’t know or care the validity of it from a historical standpoint.
Before, I would have cared. I probably would have shared it, let it resonate with me. But in the world of after, many things now land in the realm of trivial and this is no exception.
There are freckles and wrinkles on my soul that I once thought were scars. I know otherwise now. At this point in my grief journey, I feel compelled to seek out and destroy this naivety in others. “Your child could die too” constantly fills the back of my throat. Somehow I stifle it.
Sometimes I feel I will suffocate on it.
I am not a chipped cup that can be patched beautifully. I am not a cracked-but-still-recognizable version of my former self. I am not more beautiful either in spite of or because of my loss.
I may have been a cup, in the time before, but I will never be a cup again. My purpose, my identity, they are forever changed.
No, I am not the pot that was broken but can once again hold water.
I am the ship whose parts have been broken and replaced to such a degree that it is of much debate whether I am still the same vessel, or even a vessel at all.