It disintegrated as soon as it hit the floor. I honestly didn’t let it go on purpose; one of those unavoidable accidents.
I stood there, looking at the hundreds of pieces, thinking that I could imagine them back into a whole. How stupid; how sad.
I remember when I first saw it; it was in the window of a bric a brac shop in Rye, almost invisible among the load of dross surrounding it. But the colour caught my eye, setting it apart from the ordinary. It’s always colour that draws me.
It seemed to fit in immediately when I got it home – comfortable, as if it had been made for me and the house; made it complete somehow.
To start with, I put it in the living room and kept glancing at it with a slightly smug expression. How clever was I to have found something so beautiful and exotic. Next, I put it in my bedroom so I could lie in bed and gaze at it, following its sinuous lines with my eyes until I drifted off to sleep.
Then, later, I put it in the kitchen where so many of my favourite things are. I’m afraid it got a bit buried behind the other bits and pieces that seem to accumulate in that busiest of areas. But every now and then I’d come across it and it never failed to brighten my day.
So now it’s lying there, shattered, and I can’t help feeling a bit sad. I really should have taken more care of it…