What happened?
I dropped a bowl.
Are you okay?
Yes.
Okay, then don't worry about it, it's okay.
No, you don't understand. I dropped a bowl. On purpose.
Why?
Because my mind is not normal.
I continued sweeping little ceramic shards into a pile in the middle of the kitchen floor, calmly answering my husband's worried, then confused questions. He hurried for the dustpan; I took it from him, insisting he would miss some of the littlest pieces and finished scooping the pile into the dustpan, then dumped it in the bin.
Several hours earlier, I'd been driving around the corner, alert as always for an oncoming car. This time it came, and I quickly stepped on the breaks. I tried to backup, but, not having a lot of drive time as my husband usually maneuvered the manic press of cars outside our serene campus gate, I ended up halfway between their side of the road and mine. I shifted forward but thought they didn't have enough room to pass so was about to try to reverse again, all flustered, when the other driver beckoned me to pass. You have enough room! he cheerily encouraged, so I carefully inched forward, flashbacks of a previous pass-and-scrape accident we'd had on that very same corner with an identically-sized SUV a couple years prior. His estimation of space was much better than the teenage driver's was, so I gingerly made it past and drove on up the hill.
You did it, I kept telling myself though I was on the verge of tears. When you get home, you can lock yourself in the bathroom and cry a bit, I thought. Thankfully, by the time I'd pulled into the driveway the need to cry was gone. The memory, however was not.
Neither was the memory from earlier that day, when I'd stood in line in the tiny corner shop, sandwiched in an narrow aisle between shelves of tins and jars of homemade tahini on the one side and gunny sacks of red lentils, basmati rice, dried fava beans, and other bulk items on the other. Several people had rushed to the cashier from the outside door, perhaps popping in just to buy a couple bags of bread that were situated under his makeshift countertop. I stood patiently waiting my turn, when I noticed an older man who had come in after me walk past me and plonk his items on the counter, completely ignoring any sense of order. I sighed inwardly, reminding myself that this was the norm and I should push and shove my way forward otherwise I would be standing there all day.
Two hours and 45 minutes after we had started our evening potato campfire with dorm students, most of whom had already eaten off campus or in the cafeteria despite having received the invitation the day before, the last straggler arrived. He'd been busy playing football and he was hungry. All the food was packed away and most of the students had gone home; only 2 or 3 lingered by the fire, eating roasted sunflower seeds, drinking black tea, and chatting to wind down from their day. I had no energy to deal with his irresponsibility and entitlement so I directed him to the campfire and disappeared into the bedroom. Later, when I heard the clinking of spoon in bowl, I came out to find my husband patiently preparing a bowl of leftover baked potatoes for the young man.
He was playing football. He came 2 hours and 45 minutes late because he was playing football! I frustratedly told my husband. And then he expects us to serve him food, after everything has been put away and everyone has left? I don't understand.
My husband looked at me, unsure as to why something so trite was making me so upset. I know, he did the wrong thing, but he is hungry. I can't not give him food. If I do, then I'm just like him. If I know something good to do, and I don't do it, then it is sin. So I have to give him food.
I turned away and went back to the bedroom. I'd run out of words to express the anger that coiled around my insides, never fully subsiding, no matter how much I tried to redirect my thoughts, start a new day, pray, or read my Bible. Nobody would understand, anyhow. It wasn't as if I had any legitimate reasons to feel this way. I had a roof over my head, money in the bank, food in the cupboards, a working car, and a good husband.
After my husband went back out to the campfire, I returned to the kitchen. I walked up to the black plastic crate that held the dirty dishes from the evening. I looked inside at the cream ceramic bowls—the ones we'd bought the first year we were married, knowing we would use them every time we hosted people at our house. I remembered how we'd searched through Fahed Mall's 3rd floor, looking for the perfect dish that was durable yet simple in its design. My husband had found them, they were just a dollar each, and, on our limited budget, they were perfect. We carefully picked out 12, placed them in our shopping cart along with the other items we'd chosen for our very first apartment, and smiled at each other in anticipation of all the meals friends would share at our house using those bowls.
And now, three and a half years later, I picked out the bowl, the bowl that had held baked potatoes, lentil soup, surprise proposal cake, fried eggplant with tomato and garlic with Iraqi bread. The bowl with a chip on its side when someone clumsily banged it against another bowl when attempting to wash up. The bowl that I knew we could not sell because it was no longer perfect like the other 11 bowls.
And I dropped it.
Deliberately. Carefully. Purposefully.
I made sure all the windows were closed so nobody would hear me, held the bowl up and let it go, listening for the crash, watching the pieces scatter into large chunks and melt into thin shards on my kitchen floor.
For a moment, there was release.
