Plastic Fork
Coming across the best of things there is, is to stumble upon a mirror. Not any mirror mind you, rather one would tell you that which you have but don’t realize.
The process of creating something so dear and close to me, taught me a lesson I’ll never forget. As I grow to count my days, I found that memory is attached to simple objects we touch and turn to artifacts.
I was young when I left the comforts of home. The embrace of my mother and the way she used to get me to drink that early morn hot cup of milk while I’m half asleep. The noise of my younger brothers announcing their not so silly dreams and their longing to sink into worlds that are not their own.
I ventured to far lands, into the blue. Seeking meaning and responsibility, leaving a life lacking the latter in those who I should look up to.
One memory I recall with a mere glance onto my desk. I had just landed in a city that never sleeps, it was so alive yet dead in it’s core, in a sense of being foreign and cold, yet captivating and curious.
With no compass to my destination, my wandering feet led me to the most wonderful corners on this earth. I lost track of time and all I needed was a place to rest my head. It was after midnight and I found a place in the loudest ally I ever been to at the time. Greeted by a lady who wore glasses and smoked cigarettes, handing me the keys to my 3 days room of comfort, a fleeting rest that lives on forever in my memory.
As soon as I settled, my hands were shaking from hunger. I was so occupied with how widely open my life seemed to be, I had completely forgotten about food. I went outside and with nothing but bars and night clubs open as far as the eye can see. I had no luck to get that warm meal to take me to that unfamiliar bed.
I took back my steps to be greeted by that sweet lady again, without saying any word she handed me a warm meal, a smile, and wrapped folded plastic fork, the ones you get with them noodle cups at any small corner shop. I thanked her plenty, and headed up to my room. I unpacked the fork and as soon as it was unfolded, it broke in half in my hand. I fixed it with a black glue tape and I ate the most delicious meal a stranger ever provided to me, and that took me to a comforting sleep.
A day I remember every time I look at this fork. A momento, a space in time, an artifact I keep to this very day and as long as I live. I can still hear the noises from that day. I was listening to one of my favorite songs as it repeated a line I vividly remember: “You’re a lonely soul, cause you won’t let go, of anything you hold.” and I find that very true, with a slight wonder and the desperate prayers for someone to prove it wrong.
To me, all of it, is this priceless broken and poorly fixed plastic fork.
