Archive for November, 2011

A Broken Cookie Jar

In less than a week, it will be eleven months since the only man who loved me died. During that period I quit writing. I quit eating. I quit listening to music with any type of meaning (I literally filled 22 days’ worth of music on ITunes that consisted of Lil Wayne, Waka Flocka Flame, and Twista). I quit caring.

Quite simply, I quit living.

This is the first time I’ve sat down and tried to deal with some of my thoughts since the day he died. It’s already a painful journey and it’s hasn’t even really begun, considering I’ve been living in a limbo, an alternate universe of sorts, for months.

It is absolutely true that I totally and completely dropped my basket. 2011. The year that not a single fuck was given. Through friends and once estranged family, I picked up the pieces I could, and the best that I could.

I picked up the pieces that weren’t pulverized; the pieces that weren’t slivers of pain in my hand, in my heart. There weren’t many left.

Sometimes I think I’m stronger, when I look back at where I was and where I am now. But most of the time I just feel broken.  Like damaged goods.

I had this cookie jar when I was a little girl; I wasn’t really allowed to use it because from the time I could remember, the jar was old and delicate and…special. It was a Raggedy Andy cookie jar, porcelain, with the paint rubbed off in many places. The porcelain had a shiny glaze; the green and white striped hat and the red braids were my favorite parts. And about a month after my dad died, just a few weeks before my mom cut me out, I went to my parents’ house to pick up some childhood items I’d left behind, and my mom gave me the cookie jar.

She placed it in a Walmart sack, and then set it on top of an open box I was in the process of moving. She didn’t tell me she had placed the sack there. I had no idea there was a breakable item in that bag. I carelessly slung the box across the floor and the sack fell down;  that cookie jar smashed into pieces, some loud and some muffled by the plastic. I remember screaming  hysterically, I’m sure much too overdramatically.  But I honestly felt my heart smashing along with that damn cookie jar. It represented so much to me, so much about my childhood and that time of my life when I was happy and stable and…hopeful.

The symbolic parallels need not be mentioned. It’s obvious.

I remember picking up the pieces that I could and placing them back into the sack, while my mom mumbled a half-assed apology and then chided me for not opening the sack and looking in it before I started slinging shit around to be packed into the car.

That was ten months ago; I still have that sack of broken cookie jar pieces.

Like my spirit, like my soul, there’s no point in trying to glue that cookie jar back together.  It won’t work right anymore. It will never work the same way again; it will never be the same jar. Pieces are missing. There are holes. Air gets through the holes and makes the inside stale.

A broken cookie jar with stale ass crumbs inside is pretty much all I have to offer.

And no one wants to put their hand inside a broken cookie jar and pull out what they know will be stale crumbs.


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People asked where I went for a good year. Well, my dad died of a heart attack. I don’t know what else to say…time passed while I stood still. I feel ready to try and move again, so here we go. I can’t guarantee I’m going to get far. I don’t even know that I’m moving forward. But, I’m picking up my feet. That’s all I know…for now.

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