When my husband and I moved into our house it broke. My heart stopped. I looked at the delicate rose that was now split in two. I looked at the saucer that was cracked and felt like it was my own heart that had broken. My grandmother is held in that cup, and it felt like I had broken her too. She’s been gone since I was a child. She died during a risky surgery when I was in junior high. She had been so sick and she would have died without the surgery, but she wanted to risk the surgery, knowing she might die during it. I miss her dearly, and that cup was my way of remembering the precious life she showed me, and the special moments I had had. She had an AMAZING way of making each grandkid feel special even when she had so many.
This teacup is still broken. I have tried and tried to fix it. Super glue, glass glue, nothing works. I don’t know why I can’t fix the saucer. I don’t know why it won’t come together.
I have asked the husband multiple times to help me fix it. I have told him what I have tried and that I don’t know why it won’t stay put together. He still has not tried to help me fix it. He doesn’t see the importance of this teacup. He doesn’t understand why something like a teacup is worth saving. He doesn’t understand the fragile balance of love and memory held in the bottom of the cup with the roses painted on it. He doesn’t understand that, without the saucer, the cup is just a cup. He doesn’t understand that I need help restoring the cup, so that I may mend my broke heart with it. He doesn’t understand how so much love can be held in something so small, nor how broken you can feel when that love is slowly leaking out.
He doesn’t understand the importance of broken teacups… or broken hearts.