I broke a plate this afternoon. I was putting away the dishes, and I wasn’t paying attention. It slipped out of my hand and crashed onto the floor. The sound of the plate shattering was much louder than I expected. It was almost ear pricing as the sound was in such a high register. The plate broke into a few large pieces, but the majority was made up of tiny shards that went everywhere.
First, I was angry, as the plate I had broken was one we had received for our wedding, and I don’t think they make them anymore. I started to move to clean it up, but then I stopped.
I stopped to look at the mess I had made, though by accident; The strange pattern all of the pieces had made. As our kitchen is central in the layout of the apartment, shards had made it to the living room, master bedroom, and even the dining room. The spread was impressive.
What if I left it? It was a silly question and couldn’t be answered with a, yes, leave it. A child’s bare feet would be home soon. Messes are made to be cleaned up. As are accidents.
And so, I cleaned the floor. Picked up the large pieces, swept up the tiny ones. Vacuumed the tiles, and then mopped. I would say that it now looked like it never happened, but the clean floors will give away that something happened.
I was reminded of a question that a history professor posed to us, his class; If there is no evidence of a historical event happening, did it really happen?
