Untitled.

I was doing some spring cleaning recently and decided to clean out the glasses cabinet.

You know that cabinet.  The one with the glass shelves and the good wine glasses that only come out when you’ve got guests.  And I’m not talking about the ones you use when your friends come over for a drink up. 

I mean the cabinet where you keep the glasses you serve aunties and uncles with.  The one with the silver set, the one with the teacups your parents were given as a wedding gift- the ones you never, ever touch for fear of breaking them.  

My inner klutz comes out at the most inappropriate times, so I stay away from that cabinet as much as is physically possible.

Anyway, so there I was, listening to music and humming along (tunefully, I might add), carefully taking each glass off the shelf.  I lovingly dusted each shelf, taking extra care to not do one of two things that always happen when I find myself in such a precarious position i.e dealing with glass:

  1. Break a glass and/or glass shelf
  2. Cut myself with said glass and/or piece of shattered shelf.


My life is hard sometimes. 

As I was putting the glasses back, kicking myself for not having taken a picture of the cabinet so I could remember where everything was originally, I started noticing the glasses as I put them back. 

The shot glasses my sister brought back from Spain.

The tiny glass my Mum used to drink Tia Maria out of way back when.

The white wine glass that has ended up solo since the other 5 in the set broke.  (I’d like to state for the record that said breakages had nothing to do with me.)

My Dad’s collector beer mugs. He almost had one from every country we’ve lived in.

Each glass brought back its own set of memories, or memories of my parents telling me the memories they evoked for them.

I picked up one particular beer mug, which, rarely used, only used to come out on special occasions.  A gift from my Mum to my Dad, with ‘To Godfrey, love Sara’’ etched into the side.

My heart squeezed, as it still does whenever I think of my Dad.  Every time I come across something that belonged to him, or was a gift from him, inevitably my mind wanders off and I’m almost floored by the sheer force of missing him.


I sat for a while, thinking about how my parents are just relationship GOALS.  About how blessed my siblings and I are, to have grown up in a home so obviously full of the love my parents had for us, and each other.  And how lucky I am, even now that he’s gone, that he will always be here.  Telling me to smile, and carry on.  And put his mug away before I break it.

Comments

  1. Nancy Burua31 October 2016 at 16:44

    That's it? I was scrolling down to see how this all ended then I saw, 'Post a Comment."
    Good piece. Afazali my blue/green wine glass is still deh!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Mwansita31 October 2016 at 16:57

    awesome writing as always. my heart skips a beat whenever you write about Uncle Godfrey. Gone but never forgotten.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Kanyindo1 November 2016 at 12:00

      Thank you my dear! Thank you so much for reading.

      Delete
  3. Unknown31 October 2016 at 17:53

    I'm sitting at my desk with tears in my eyes at the memories but also at your inner Klutz and her inappropriateness! Beautifully written as always Ju!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Kanyindo1 November 2016 at 12:01

      Fanks Ju!! So long as we can still laugh... As for my inner klutz, I have just learned to live with her.

      Delete
  4. harada5718 August 2017 at 10:43

    This comment has been removed by the author.

    ReplyDelete

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