Last night my husband was reaching for a dish while we were making dinner and he whacked my little bar pan and broke it. I was crestfallen because he was being a little careless and because he had broken a fairly expensive kitchen item.
But mostly I was sorrowful to lose a dish that held such memories for me.
I quickly reminded myself that there are far worse things in the world than broken dishes, but a part of me is just so crushed. I had planned to make lonely little biscuits for myself on that same pan when my husband deploys again, and now I can't.
And something about that just hurts my heart.
