Drop
Joshua Chen
T
oday a glass slipped from my hands and broke apart on the floor,
and I stood there staring at it for a while. I hadn’t thought of my
mother in so long. She would often remind me not to drop any of the
dishes as they made their journey from sink to cabinet. She had always
been so scared of falling and couldn’t even bear to see plates fall, much
less herself. It was the loneliest and most dangerous thing one could do,
she’d say. The plastics were invincible and I liked using them. I could
fit four between my fingers and transport them like a machine to their
resting place. She would always tell me to be extra careful with the porcelain. Those were precious. Hold with two hands, on both sides. Keep
it flat. Like this. Good. My mother nearly cried the time I dropped one,
and I did cry, afraid that she would too. The pieces bounced sharply
and some flew across the kitchen floor, and others vibrated against the
tile like coins until it was quiet again. I stared at the ground blurrily,
motionless, but she took me into her arms and kissed my forehead and
whispered that it was okay. Only plates, after all.
I never understood her fear, but it did remind me of her often. So
many things could fall, after all, and I’d bring this up as she walked me
home from elementary school on cool autumn afternoons.
“But the leaves fall,” I’d say, and they were, all around us, twirling
gently through the air like little fairies.
“And the ground catches them,” she’d say.
“And us?”
“Not us, dear,” and she’d take my hand and we would walk along.
I never asked her more beyond this. Something in her voice reminded me of a gentle finger pressed against my lips asking for quiet, or perhaps my eight-year-old self was content just pointing out things that fell.
As an adolescent I would often remember those leaves and our
conversation. Eager for discovery, on summer days my friends and I
would barrel through the woods, tennis shoes stuck with burrs and
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