It was in the window of an antique
shop that was going out of business.
There was something magical or mysterious about it or maybe that’s just
the way it made me feel, I’m not sure.
In either case I wanted it.
The shopkeeper said she wanted $10.00
for it. I thought about it for a while
as I looked at other things around the place.
Then I went back to it inspecting for chips,
cracks and general imperfections. There
weren’t any. It was even signed on the
bottom by the artist.
The more I held it the more I liked
it. I dug a twenty from my wallet and
handed it over. The antique dealer gave
me a ten and a five and then carefully wrapped this ceramic pitcher in tissue paper and
placed it into a bag.
I instantly wanted to tell them they
had given me too much change but then remembered my first impression; this
pitcher was special – somehow magical, so I didn’t say anything. I put the change into my wallet and drove
away with my treasure.
That was six years ago and for six
years now I have been unable to enjoy this wonderful piece. Instead of its beauty I see a shady
transaction; I see myself as some greedy, unscrupulous customer slithering up
and down the aisles, taking advantage of poor shopkeepers unable to count back
correct change.
I’m wondering now if this is the
special power of this piece - its ability to taunt; reflecting like a Twilight
Zone mirror - undistorted and unflattering images of its owner. Maybe it was never intended to hold
refreshing beverages or chilled sangria; perhaps it holds only character flaws
and lacks the ability to pour them out.
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