Chapter 1: The Emotional Weight of Objects

Sometimes, even the simplest items can carry profound memories.

The red plate, adorned with a snowman's face, was once surrounded by a mountain of festive cookies. After countless trips through the dishwasher, a piece of its vibrant red exterior finally cracked and broke away.

I often thought about putting the plate in a special place to prevent someone from mistaking it for garbage. Yet, I never did. It had become the favorite dish for my kids’ lunches, a Christmas-themed plate even in the middle of summer, serving up quesadillas and orange slices. Each time we used it, a wave of happiness washed over me.

This plate wasn’t an heirloom or an exotic treasure; it was simply a plate that my father had once brought cookies on many years ago.

“Whoever gets to the counter first can use Grandpa’s plate for lunch!” my daughters would cheerfully announce, racing each other. Sometimes, they would even show kindness, with my eldest saying, “You can have the plate today,” to her younger sister.

My father passed away when my daughters were just 2 and 5 years old. While he was alive, his presence was unmistakable. He would scatter every toy across the floor when he babysat and leave a trail of crumbs behind him wherever he went.

The plate eventually became a nuisance. It didn’t stack neatly with our other dishes. Much like my father, who often struggled to fit in, he would wear mismatched clothes and share his loud, well-informed opinions at our local coffee shop.

Yet, he was also the most brilliant and engaging person in any gathering. He had a unique ability to bring out the best in others and uplift people with his compliments.

Today would have marked my father's 70th birthday, and I find myself longing for the moments of both annoyance and affection he brought into my life.

One day, I entered the kitchen to find the plate missing. I glanced at my husband, who sometimes gets caught up in organizing frenzies.

“Did you get rid of the snowman plate?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“Yes.” His eyes widened, sensing the tension. My kids paused their play, picking up on the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

Tears filled my eyes, but I maintained my composure. “That was my dad’s plate. It’s the kids’ favorite for lunch. How could you not know that? He’s never coming back to give me another plate of cookies, and I miss that so much. You know I do.”

I left the kitchen, seeking solitude in our bedroom. My husband realized he had made a mistake.

The plate represented far more than just a dish; it was a tangible connection to my father, now irretrievably lost. It served as a small reminder of my dad, linking my children to memories that would mostly reside in the depths of their hearts.

When my husband came in to apologize, my anger morphed into something deeper. The plate became a symbol of my feelings of isolation—how I was carrying the bulk of parenting responsibilities and feeling drained. I questioned, “How could you not notice that plate was a part of our daily life? Why weren’t you paying attention?”

I accepted my husband’s apology—“I am so sorry”—but tucked it away with the many other words we exchange to heal our wounds.

I still miss that plate.

However, I have discovered other ways to coexist with my grief. My father was a writer too, and every time I send an essay into the world, I feel as if I’m continuing our conversations.

I hesitated to write about the plate because I’m trying to move past the pain. Yet, reflecting on my dad today feels comforting. He would remind me, “Mercedes, we are all filled with contradictions.”

Indeed, Dad, grief is much the same. It envelops you in sorrow while also filling your heart with joy for the present moment. Happy Birthday.

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