When I was six years old, I discovered a beautiful set of china in my grandmother's antique china cabinet. It consisted of about 45 or 50 pieces, ranging from tiny cups with their respective saucers to a soup tureen and even a butter dish. They were always kept away for special occasions, such as her birthday or family gatherings.
Every day, when I returned from school, my grandmother would prepare oatmeal with milk for me and serve it in one of the smallest cups, as if it were a doll-sized tea. As I grew up, the size of the cup grew with me. Those cups held not only my oatmeal, but also the love and dedication with which she cared for me.
During my adolescence, I persistently asked her to leave me her china set as a legacy of her love. However, my father—her son—would scold me every time I brought it up.
As time went by, my grandmother fell ill. As an adult, during an intimate conversation while she lay in her bed unable to get up, she took my hand and told me:
“Kelcy, in the drawer of the china cabinet, there are some tablecloths. You can use them to wrap the china and take it with you.”
At that moment, my heart stopped. I realized she was saying goodbye. I had spent half my life asking her for that set, and when she finally gave it to me, I felt a profound sadness.
Since the day she passed away, I have used her plates every day. It is my way of keeping her present in my life. I wash them by hand after every lunch and dinner, as a small ritual in her honor.
One day, due to a lack of time, my boyfriend washed them for me and accidentally broke one of the pieces. It was at that moment that I decided to contact them to transform that fragment into a bracelet.
Now, every time I wear it, I feel that a part of her is still with me.
Cio.