Growing up, my family’s kitchen cupboard was a cacophony of cups, plates, and silverware – all miss-matched, nothing a perfect set. We liked it better that way – each plate had a memory attached to it and the bowls’ barely visible print meant that it had been a favorite for cereal. Every mug was mysteriously acquired through a unique process of time – for example, everyone had a favorite cup that had been around for years, yet no one knew just how it had gotten there. All of which added to the charm of the kitchen cupboards, and our unique set of dinner wear.
At the bottom of the piled plates, faithfully lay the red plate. It was chipped, and completely alone – a one of a kind. Sometimes special, but most of the time ignored. It was never used unless it was somebody’s birthday. It was tradition in the William’s home to have your favorite meal cooked to celebrate your big day. More importantly, however, you were given the red plate. Only on such occasions, did the red plate mean much. But when the plate was removed from the cupboard, it was wondrous how beautiful the plate could become when placed on the table. It would lie full of bright pride as though eager to indicate the coveted spot of the birthday boy or girl.
As a kid, I never realized how different I was. Not different in the sense that I couldn’t tie my shoe, or I had a hard time reading, but different in my family. I never realized that my ideas, my likes, my passions were any different. Yet, over the years I came to realize that my family is as diverse as the plates we ate upon. Sporty, woodsy, redneck, strict, hippy: all miss-matched, nothing a perfect set. Me? I feel sometimes special, but most of the time ignored. Not on purpose mind you, but like the red plate, I only look good on special occasions. So I stay in the cupboard, on the bottom of the stack, waiting to be taken out and looked upon.
Note: this isn't necessarily autobiographical. as a writer, i have taken a few liberties. but that's not really the point. instead, i want you to focus on the FEELINGS the piece elicits and then, if you wouldn't mind, tell me what you felt when you finished reading the entry. i am trying to craft essays that create very precise emotions. thank you reader!
The red plate may have thought it mattered little as it set at the bottom of the stack. Chipped,scratched, paint not as bright as it use to be but it had been used, it was part of a family. It was part of the family traditions, part of the really good moments in our family. Unlike the antique red plates that are so precious to look upon but have no family memory for anyone. "The Red Plate" had been miss used. Hands had not been as careful of it's delicateness but it was loved by all. How sad it would have been if we had not had the red plate. I'm sure if the red plate had had feelings it would be shocked to know how much she meant to the family. We foolishly took her forgranted but did that take away it's value? Did she look different than all the other plates, absolutely. . .she was special. I love the Velvetine Rabbit. He was miss used, not appreciated but he stayed loyal to the little boy and became real. Even though at the end he wasn't beautiful anymore. . .he had loved and given his all. Like the red plate. . .it brought joy to all those lucky enough to sit down in front of it.
ReplyDeleteI love this post ash, and while I can't make a profound comment like the last reader, you are so creative and wonderful. Never tell yourself you're not a good writer, because you are a great, creative writer.
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