I may not have walked away with a ring, but at least I will have the flowerpot

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty, — that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

— John Keats, “Ode on a Grecian Urn”

Let us have a moment of silence to honor the real casualties of the shidduch system, the forlorn and forsaken ceramics. Many a time and oft have I heard the tragic tale of a mug, serving platter, or owl figurine, painted in awkward companionship with a guy you barely know and whom you shortly learn you will never see again.

You take time to process. Maybe you cry, eat a pint of ice cream. You wonder: If I had worn a different dress, used a different mouthwash, chosen a different seat in the venue, would he have said yes?

Then, after a while—

Okay, I’ve made my peace; goodbye, Zevy, goodbye, Dovid, goodbye, Yitzchak Yeshaya. I guess we weren’t meant to be. I still hate you a little, but I can learn to let you go.

But my flowerpot! My heart aches for my flowerpot.