A longing stare is how it starts. My eyes creep across the convex surface, gazing into a blurred reflection of my very face. Light scratches cover its shape, distorting the image resting in its metallic reflection. Spots of brown rust sit upon the edge, standing out from the greyish surface that catches the eye. I can barely see my face. It would be hard to even say it was mine. It is so distorted I could almost mistake it for someone else’s. How do I really even know it is mine? How it isn’t someone, from another time? Another dimension? Looking through, back at me through the same scratch covered surface. More scratches continue down the handle, surrounding the ‘stainless steel’ wording etched upon it. This is a spoon that has seen a lifetime of action. The light scratches show a life of conformity, a spoon that was never alone, rather; always with others. The minuscule rust spots reflect the poor treatment obviously experienced, as it sat, water dripping from its recently cleaned body.
It feels strong to the touch, yet it is only aesthetic. With a small force it bends with ease, caving into the pressure set upon it. It has aged, more so than it would like. Yet it stands up to this age. Not letting it take control of its life; its purpose.
I imagine that this spoon would have some stories, were it to talk. Stories of a lifetime of use, a lifetime of exploration. Exploring the likes of soup, ice cream, any food that involves the use of a spoon really. It would tell of these exploits, gathering the young teaspoons around, stories of the many worlds it has seen. That’s what I see as I gaze upon this spoon. I see fulfillment. Accomplishment. Endurance. Love. A love for what it does. A love for what it will do.
But as one side shows age, the other shows grace. Flipping over the spoon shows a new life, a new spoon. The concave of the spoons face shows a life full of use too, but a different side of use. While it too has aged, it features a much shinier appearance, likely from the lips of many humans. This side has no rust, very few scratches, and a clear reflection. Yet the reflection is not pure. While the image is far more clear, I now see a warped version of myself. No longer blurred, my face is now stretched across the surface. Again it is hard to really know if I am looking upon myself. Am I? If this spoon shows something else, is that my true form? Is that who I really am? Or is it again a distant face, looking at me wondering the very same thing? The handle continues smoothly until it reaches a floral pattern rising above. The handle expresses tranquility, acceptance. This spoon always knew what it was for, and it was happy. Happy to know its purpose, happy to know oneself.
In many ways I envy the spoon, for it knows its purpose. How many of us ever get to learn that? Everyday I question whether I have one, whether I will ever know it, complete it. But this spoon knows. It has always known. This spoon in many ways has accomplished much more than I have, maybe more than I ever will. Does that make the spoon more important than me? Maybe. But does that make me worthless? I would wager no. No it doesn’t. For I still have time. This spoon does too. Maybe many years. But a different sense of time. For its time will always be spent on serving the likes of myself. Many others will also use this spoon, aiding towards its purpose, while it also aides us. We work together, towards a greater goal. A goal that we may not know, yet one that can be completed.
All with the help of a spoon.
∞/∞
How can one judge a spoon, when one hasn’t judged oneself?
I Review Everything 