My grief was now replaced with anger. I grabbed my empty teacup, my mother’s favorite china pattern, and threw it as hard as I could. It smashed against the wall, spraying little floral china pieces everywhere. And I sat there and glared at the little fragments and wondered what my mother would have said.

And then I remembered what she did say, and I went to her china cabinet and opened it up and stared at it. Perfect, hand painted, precious china that she only brought out for special occassions. It seemed like a stupid idea to me my entire life.

I remember her taking me to the large department store uptown, trying to convince me to pick out a pattern for Allen and I. But I didn’t want any china. And she told me that we would need it, but I just couldn’t comprehend why anyone would want to buy dishes they would only use once a year.

And after I thought of that, I pulled out a dish, opened the dining room window, and threw it, not caring if it hit the neighbors house or not.