The Pot Handle

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.

I didn’t grow up seeing this pot. But it reflected my mother: compact, efficient, and designed to do the most in limited space. Its simple lines and size belied its capacity for producing a myriad of items that graced my mother’s table.

It is hard for me to reconcile that I’ve been married 50-plus years, yet am still the daughter who needs to hear her mother’s voice and its abundance of easily dispensed wisdom. I can’t call her to tell her about a simchah in the family, a concern, or a new recipe I saw. But I can use her pot and feel her with me on some level.