This week while I was cleaning up my kitchen I accidentally dropped a coffee mug and broke it.
This bummed me out deeply.
For one, it was a damned nice mug on its own; but on a more sentimental note, it was a mug I had bought several years ago while staying up at Orcas Island on a 3-day getaway with my then-boyfriend, whom we'll just call Mr. Crazy. I picked it out at this fantastic pottery place that had its wares scattered all around a yard right along side the Sound, including inside of a raft that they had christened the "sale boat" (this dorky sense of humor appealed to me greatly). He bought a bowl there, I think. We went driving all around the island that day. We read. We listened to Van Morrison. We later argued because I burnt dinner to a charred crisp and there we were in the middle of (sort of) nowhere hungry and annoyed with each other. We made up. More Van Morrison was played.
So then, fast forwarding to five years later, I'm standing in my kitchen, looking down at the broken mug sitting in my trash, realizing it was one of the few tangible items I actually had from my time with Mr. Crazy and there it was...in the trash. Which made me very sad and sentimental about those years and that trip and that time in my life. I moped around for a while until common sense came back and Swiffered away the nostalgia and reminded me that Mr. Crazy was, well, crazy, and it was not a relationship that could have ever worked in the real world.
Still, I'll miss that mug.