“There is the ceramic Pilgrim who toppled over one November day and broke his neck on my tile floor. Unable to separate him from his loving wife, an equally charming display of orange, green and wheat, both purchased at a local cider and donut farm store, I glued his head back on and returned him to his rightful place. Year after year, I unpack him, and regret the line of glue etched around his neckline. There is Maggie's teacup, painstakingly glued in several joints, betrayed by several minuscu...le chips where lavender petals once belonged. There are several wobbly legs of furniture tenderly patched with wood glue. My china sugar bowl, its knob so carefully glued, that you cannot notice the seam. The list is long. Ten years of patched treasures that I lovingly display.It could be that this trait was inherited from my mother. I had left the record unattended on the floor, and in her fluid movement, no doubt tending to a household chore, she stepped on it and it broke it two. I looked up from my record player, and my six-year-old heart cried out first, soon followed by voice.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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