Looking for something to toss a salad in, I pulled the middle Corningware mixing bowl from a set in the cabinet. The set belonged to my mother.
Later, I washed the bowl and turned it up in the dish rack.
The sadness hits at the oddest moments and for the most unexpected reasons. This time, it was seeing the piece of masking tape bearing Mom’s name, written years ago when she still cooked and took things to potlucks, and her handwriting was firm and just a little bit jaunty.
Thanks for reading,