What a broken glass means

Today I broke a glass. 
While this is hardly tragic, it was my favorite glass, one I had shipped
from the US with my oodles of books. 
I’ve had it for years, and I know I can’t ever replace it, or the
sentiment attached to it.

I’m not a terribly sentimental person (I referred to one of
John Donne’s poems as “sappy” my freshman year of college, an incident I
remember because I had that same professor two semesters later, and she asked
me if I still had the same opinion), and in the intervening years since that
English Lit class, I would like to think that I have grown and matured a
bit.  Now, I would never call a classic
author’s work “sappy.”  My vocabulary has
expanded since I was 18.

Last week, I had the joy of hosting the Rev. Canon Dr. Alison Barfoot while she
was here for the Provincial Assembly, and during a discussion about something I
have in my flat (possibly the potholders from the firm where my mom worked that
I asked my bishop to bring), we got to discussing the little things that make
us feel tied to the US. 

Yes, I have other glasses that were purchased in
Uganda.  I brought over several coffee
mugs in the book shipment as well.  I
rarely use them, preferring the larger mugs that I found here, but having them,
just SEEING them, reminds me of the United States.  I love seeing the hand-painted mug my best
friend gave me, and I use it when I miss her. 
I love the mug with the picture of the Bishop Tucker building that was
painted by a friend who was a missionary here, and it reminds me of her.

Oddly enough, for me, it’s the very small things that have sentimental value.  I absolutely love my potholders.  I’m actually bringing some small Ugandan
things to keep in my room at my mom’s, because when I’m in the US, I miss
Uganda. 

I will replace the glass, but it won’t be the same.