My Pitcher

I'm closing in on 45. I live in the back room of my mother's house. I struggle week to week just to make ends meet. I'm undereducated and over mouthy. It would be hard to say my life is right on track.

However, there was a time, not too long ago, when things were much worse. A time when I was living out of my car. A time when I had been living on the fringes of society for so long I wasn't sure how to get back or if I even wanted to find my way back. I'm not sure how, but I managed to find a little job, in a little town and a little apartment to go with it.

With almost no possessions the vast emptiness of the apartment confused me. 1 fork, 1 knife, 1 spoon, 2 bowls, 2 mugs, 2 towels, 2 washcloths, a toothbrush, a sleeping bag, 2 blankets, 3 pillows. The sum of my kingdom. No matter how I arranged things the emptiness remained.

After cashing my second paycheck I decided I'd better at least get some things for the kitchen. I wandered the aisles at Rite-Aid not knowing what to buy. I'd done without for so long it seemed like I had everything I needed. Finally, I settled on a pitcher to make juice and a wooden spoon.

It was another two weeks before I actually used the things, but I enjoyed just looking at the pitcher. I liked the roundness of it, the simplistic design, the sturdiness of it. Sometimes I would just stare at it.

I've never admitted this to anyone, but sometimes, when things got really bad, I would sit and hold my pitcher. The feel of it grounded me, made me feel more human. It helped bring me back from the edge.

I still have the pitcher. I haven't sat with it in years, but lately, I've been tempted.

I don't think this story is part of My Bad Art show. It's just something that's been on my mind. I would love to know what you think.

Are you going to let me know what you think? Are you going to leave me some love?