The Butter Dish

     It wasn't the butter dish that slipped out of my hands and fell to the floor breaking into a hundred pieces, that I feel bad about.  It was not that it was beautiful and lasted a lifetime from kitchen to kitchen without a scratch.   It's the memory of all the other hands that touched it down through the years, that made me cry.  I mean,  I am not crying over the butter dish.  I am crying because I no longer have it to look at.  Every time I looked at it sitting on my table, good memories just flowed gently through my mind.  Every time I touched it, and washed it, and put a new stick of butter in it,  I was back in my
grandmother's kitchen, watching her cook dinner on Sunday, or running through the kitched while my mother made breakfast for a house full of family and friends.  I would think of all the wonderful people in my life down through the years who had touched it with their kind,  loving,  hardworking fingers.   From one womans beautiful hands to another, it was handed down to me.   

It's not about the butter dish,  it is  what it represents.  It represented a part of my life and the people who were in it.  It is not the object, it is what you see in the object. Who sat in a certain chair in the living room, who ate at that dining room table, and who you lived with and loved in that home. At least that's how it is for me.


     My butter dish is gone forever............but I still have the memories, thank goodness for that. 

Besides, I think my mom has another I might be able to talk her out of..............


                                                 I Wish You Love and Loving Memories,

Joyce