This little owl was a sugar bowl. Apparently, I wanted to buy it for my grandparents for Christmas at the local Ace Hardware store in Alamosa, CO (I think it was known as “White’s Hardware” at the time when locally owned was the only way in small towns); I was adamant that I wanted it for them. Of course, I don’t remember any of this. I was too young then to remember it now.
I do remember it always being at their house though. Brown like the late 1970s. Never full of sugar. It always just sat on a shelf in their kitchen. When my grandma died, my grandpo moved into a small apartment and the owl moved there too. I don’t remember exactly where it sat in his place, but I remember always seeing it.
When he passed away, my dad asked me if I wanted the owl. I was confused as to why I would want a knickknack… until he told me the story of how I bought it.
It had never really been used as a sugar bowl because it had been dropped and it shattered. My grandpo glued it all back together. If you looked at it closely, you could see the fractures and glue.
Every time I moved, I packed it carefully. And it always sat somewhere that I saw it everyday in the house. But, this last move, it didn’t make it. We found it in little pieces, still wrapped up.
It’s strange how human nature works. My grandpo gluing it back together because it was a gift from his grandson. Me keeping it with me as if it was a memory I could touch. When really, the memories I have of him are of stories and hunting trips, of how little he really said about serving in WWII, of his ring finger that had been partially cut off… The owl didn’t keep those in place for me… and it doesn’t have to exist to remind me either.
Poetry Overland 