The pepper grinder is small and copper with a brass knob at the top that allows you to hand-turn the grinder. Youâre never sure where you picked it up â itâs not a gift or a purchase, otherwise youâd have the saltshaker to match â but it feels right sitting next to your fruit bowl. Logically, it should go by your stove where the rest of your spices have congregated in a misshapen mob, getting stained by Bolognese and fry oil. However, your fruit bowl is a stoneware behemoth you found in the crawlspace under the house, and the shine of the copper next to the earthen tone reminds you of spending long hours excavating in the Italian countryside as an archeology sophomore in college (about two years before you became an English major), so it stays.
Then, of course, youâre too busy to eat fruit before it rots and the bowl sits empty- barring a lemon or lime here or there-Â and thatâs no good either because it takes up over half of the counter to the right of your sink and backs up against the blank wall at the end of your galley kitchen where you canât hang anything because both the fridge door and the pantry door swing into it.
So when your mother gives you another worry stone for your birthday â rose quartz this time, which means she thinks if youâre not worried about being single in your 30s, you should be â you hold it while staring out the kitchen window, drinking coffee over the sink, and when you finish the last sip full of grounds you toss the mug in the sink and the rose quartz in the bowl. It clinks loudly and then settles between those two lemons that you need to find a use for before the weekend, lest they go hard and unusable except for cleaning your sink.
After that, belated birthday wishes show up in the mail, and you canât bring yourself to throw them out. Your Aunt Sylvia sends a postcard from Peru that sheâs been holding onto for âa special occasionâ for the last five years and, -arenât you lucky?- youâre the special winner of a National Geographic photo of Machu Picchu. And youâre not a monster. The card may not hold the same significance to you as it did to her, but the thought does and so tucked between the bowl and the wall it goes where the very tippy top of the ruins rise over the brown rim, as if from the depths of a valley.
Then your college roommate (the archaeology one who made you want to do the study abroad program in the first place), Audra, sends you a shard of Roman pottery and a note in Latin that you canât read but understand perfectly by the coffee stains littering the edge of it. The sight of the coffee stains warms your heart more than the pottery shard, so both go in the bowl where you can occasionally glance at them as you drink your own coffee over the sink and reminisce over study dates and the few regular dates you shared before her passion stole her abroad.
(And if the clay and the rose quartz lie next to each other and you suddenly think of marriage and nostalgia and her stoneware eyes that led you to save the same-colored fruit bowl from the depths of your house in the first place, itâs a natural series of associations and doesnât prove your mother right at all.)
The driftwood isnât from anyone. Your agent calls to tell you that you won an award for one of your books. The driftwood is in your hand, scavenged along the Potomac from amidst the pebbles deposited by the last storm, and itâs suddenly your only tether to reality as she explains what this means. It means reviews and author readings and an interview - of you! â and a guaranteed sequel. The stick is smooth under your fingertips and you wave it in the air is if itâs a wand in an attempt to burst your bubble.
Only youâre home the next moment and youâve still got the driftwood in your hand and your bubble is unburst. It feels significant that you brought it back with you so you put it across the top of your fruit bowl as if itâs the award itself. You have a decaf coffee to celebrate that evening and see that stick guarding your rose quartz and your pepper grinder and your pottery shard and you think, Iâm doing okay. And the joy you feel from that is so powerful that your next thought is, Iâm happy.
Which is, of course, when the power goes out.
Outages happen all the time in a block as old as yours. Before, youâd see it as free time and go lay down in bed and wait for the world to relight or for morning to come. But you donât have time now. Your agent is planning to call you soon. You are an award-winning author and you have things to do before your 42% battery runs out.
You make your kitchen your base and set the six pillar candles on your counter, lighting them one by one. Theyâre the rainbow ones from last June your mother bought you in a sweet yet confusing show of support and youâve never found a special enough occasion to burn them. You smile at Machu Picchu peaking over your fruit bowl. Your aunt is the one who taught you about special things.
Then your agent calls and, while youâre hammering out the details, you see that the candles are about to drip colored wax onto your white, plastic countertops and even though you really want to replace them, you canât afford to (at least until you sign a contract). You snatch up your driftwood and use it to scoop the wax from the sides until a kaleidoscope of color is collected and you have to keep spinning it to keep it from dripping.
You blow on the hot wax, thinking of Audra and your family and the future your agent is painting for you until it cools. Then you place the driftwood over the bowl where it belongs.
 Itâs just a bowl. Of course, itâs just a bowl. It does a good job of taking up a huge amount of your counter and of holding onto things youâd forget in a junk drawer. It looks good in the candlelight, warm and earthy and welcoming with the three bright lemons scattering amongst your treasures. Itâs nice to see reminders of your loved ones every morning from the summit of Machu Picchu to your worry stone to that shard of pottery, but itâs not anything more.
At least itâs not until you put your driftwood, wax-covered wand back and think, I wish I could see her.
The flames of the candles sputter and turn gold, radiating a pure and steady light that could never come from a mundane fire. Your agent stops herself midsentence, apologizes, promises to call you back when she has a better connection, and hangs up. The bowl rattles and shivers and you take a step back as your copper pepper grinder tips over. You must not have put it together correctly because it spills when it does, little peppercorns that roll across your counter towards the edge.
You expect to hear the dried pepper hit the ground, but it doesnât. Each peppercorn stops unnaturally.
The candles splutter and return to normal flame. Your bowl is still. The lemons seem less appetizing than they had a moment ago, but your treasures are still there and lovely.
You pick up your Roman shard.
Your phone rings. Audra. Although you canât imagine talking to anyone after what youâve just witness, your body isnât on the same page. Muscle memory and association has you answering before the second ring.
âMal, I got the job!â
âOh, I didnât tell you. Not because I was hiding it! But nobody ever gets it and I didnât want you to get your hopes up and then my hopes upââ
Her rapid-fire word is grounding. You laugh. âBecause my hopes are your hopes.â
âObviously,â she says. She takes a deep breath. âI got the Smithsonian. The curator role. The job.â
Sheâs coming home. The realization hits like electricity, raising all the hair on your arms and almost making you drop the shard. You blink quickly to stop the automatic tears.
âIâm here,â you say. You go to put the pottery shard back with more care than you ever have, as if itâs Audra herself. She can probably hear the way your voice trembles, but you canât compose yourself. âOh, Iâm so happy. When?â
âIn a month. I have to hand over some current projects, which should only take a week, but finding someone to take over my classes might take a little longer, but not too long! I promise. After that itâs packingââ
You put the pottery shard back in the bowl as gently as you ever have. Audraâs voice is the sweetest music as she says goodbye, in a hurry to start packing. You hear that music long after she hangs up. Your knees are weak. Sheâs coming home. Sheâs coming home. Thank whatever god, sheâs coming homeâ
Your fingers touch something coarse and feather-light. Your brow furrows as you pull a scrap of ancient paper from the fruit bowl.
The lights flare as the power returns.
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Thanks for all the support! Excited for another year on this blog. I'll probably make a mushy post about it at some point, but...EIGHT years! And counting! What an amazing time this has been :D
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