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Sunday Morning (3)
I am battered. With dents, scratches and irregularities all over me, I have travelled the world and have known many street plans. I have been the source of comfort and relief. Displayed on tables in houses, hotels and hospitals, I bumped into glasses, plates and cutlery of every kind. Sometimes empty, but often filled with little grains of many colors and shapes, I mostly was kept warm, close to the human body. Once I was shiny and smooth, a gift from the grandmother. But I had my share of wear and tear, and grandmother has long shed her mortal coil. I am so tired that I can’t keep myself closed firmly, like I proudly used to do.
But I don’t mind. I feel at home and loved. And after all those years of belonging to a living body, I too have come alive. I became Real. Even if I might soon fall apart, this Realness will never leave me.
Recently, I am accompanied by another one like me. She is breathtakingly beautiful and still in her youth. She shines and is polished to perfection. As a gift from Debbie she has the best of breeds, and once I will be proud to stand down for her.
But not yet now. I have still some time left in me. I will teach her the tricks of our trade and she will be the finest apprentice I could have wished for. And eventually, she will become Real too. But never will I be forgotten. I am the Ancestor. I am Paul’s first pill box.
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