The Pitcher

 

You think about someone a lot when they die. I might do it too much, I don’t know how to measure it.

My late mother collected pitchers, a hobby about which I knew nothing. I have two: a clear glass creamer, and a red and gold slender pitcher with a vaguely Asian look.

Not knowing her well, I was only temporarily surprised that she had this collection. That was not the dominant feeling.

The dominant feeling, in addition to sadness, was acknowledging that my mother and I knew very little about each other.

Not knowing each other upset me when she was alive. Oddly – to me, at least – after she died, I only felt sadness for both of us.

In lieu of pleasant memories, I washed the pitcher and put the shiny, pretty item on a glass table for display.

And remembering.