Letting go of that pot meant letting go of another piece of my mother

OF

course, it had to break a half hour before Shabbos. Just as I was moving the soup from the burner into the oven to keep it warm, the handle gave way, revealing a rotten inner core. I’d prolonged the inevitable for some time, repeatedly reattaching the wobbly handle with duct tape and hope.  I knew that at some point, the duct tape would give way, and that they simply don’t make handles to fit this type of pot anymore.

But letting go of that pot meant letting go of another piece of my mother.

When my mother died 14 years ago, I knew that pot of hers would be one I’d be using all the time. The perfect size for our now two-person family, it was neither too small if we had a few guests nor too big for just us. And I know my mother bought it so long ago for the same reasons. Once it was just her and my father, she didn’t need to pull out the many large pots she used when the whole family was in attendance.