I broke a bowl today and I cried. I didn’t cry because I cut
myself. I didn’t cry because the bowl was terribly expensive. I cried because
that bowl was the last of a set of 3 that tied me to someone very special. It
was something tangible – something I could touch and feel, and then somehow
feel her. And now it’s gone.
Bert and I married in 1989 and moved into an amazing old
house on an even more amazing old street – Stuart Avenue in Richmond, Virginia.
We had neighbors with whom we are still friendly today. They were a part of our
daily routine for 11 years. You cannot help but bond with someone during that
length of time, if only by their daily presence.
Across the street lived Mr. and Mrs. Moss – interesting
because we possibly had some family ties (Momma’s maiden name is Moss), but we
never found the connection. For 4 years we lived there with only an occasional
wave across the street. That changed the day we brought our first-born home
from the hospital.
Mrs. Moss marched across the street, formally introduced
herself, and presented me with a ceramic rocking horse with a silk flower
arrangement. “I am Ethel Moss and I live across the street. I just wanted to
congratulate you on the birth of your daughter and let you know that I can
watch her at any time. No charge.” Thus began one of the most impactful
relationships of my life.
For our next six years on Stuart Avenue, Nana Moss became a
part of our family. She was a surrogate grandmother to my girls. She was at
family dinners and birthdays and Christmas. She was a caregiver and companion
to our children. She helped me nurse them when they were sick. She helped me
kiss boo-boos. She helped me remove splinters. She reveled in their every move
and accomplishments, and thought they were as amazing as I did.
Nana Moss outfitted her house for the kids. She bought an
entire video library for them – Arthur, Madeline, Little Bear, Teletubbies, and
Barney. She had special sheets and towels for their sleepovers. She had toys
and games and bubble bath, just for them. She would fix them her special mac
& cheese and sherbet. Those specialties she served in these perfect sized
little green milk glass bowls.
From what she told me, Nana Moss had a difficult and unhappy
childhood. Her experiences clearly impacted her personality. She was acerbic
and difficult, but oh so steadfast in her love for our children. She was flat
out angry when Bert and I moved 22 miles west. She didn’t speak to us for days.
I assured her we would still see her frequently, and we did. I drove the kids
to see her 2-3 times each week. I called her every day. I drove her to the
Doctor. I took her shopping. The girls and I would take her to lunch, or simply
sit on her stoop and drink iced tea. We were friends. She was a part of my
every day.
About 6 years after we moved, Nana Moss was diagnosed with a
brain tumor. At her request I, along with another former neighbor, managed her
medical decisions. We arranged for 24-hour nursing care. It was the most
difficult thing I’d ever done…to watch her slip away and leave us. It was a
long, stressful, and sad year. The day she died, I cried into my pillow like a
baby. My loss was intense. I had lost a friend. I had lost someone I spoke to
every single day for thirteen years. My children were devastated by the loss of
their Nana Moss.
It’s ridiculous to think a bowl, an object, can hold you
closer to someone…and yet, it did. Every time I used one of these bowls, I
thought of Nana Moss and I smiled. Every. Single. Time. Continuing to serve my
children ice cream in those bowl connected me with her.
She was 37 years older than I, but she was my best friend
for many years. It was unique and special and sweet. Through her stubborn and
strong personality, she taught me how to not take shit from anyone, how to
speak my mind, how to do whatever the hell I wanted, and how to be so very
grateful for all my many blessings.
I inherited 3 bowls after she died. Over the years, I broke
one and then another. I would use that final bowl whenever I craved comfort.
I cherished it. And then today, it slipped out of my hand when unloading the
dishwasher, hit the floor, and smashed
. It was so unceremonious. I was home alone. I sunk to the floor to
pick up the pieces and tears filled my eyes. I thought of Nana Moss and smiled
and pouted and cried.
It’s just a bowl, but so much more. Who knew a bowl could
hold so much?
