My Mother’s Favorite Vase

To Everything I Broke and Never Said Sorry To

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Dear Vase, you’ve been replaced. In my absence, they moved houses, and when I came back, you were gone from my bedside table.

I don’t even know how to begin. I want to apologize, though the word feels useless. I held you through nights no one should’ve seen. If a human had witnessed them, they’d be scarred for life. My silent screams, the choking on words I couldn’t speak, the late‑night mutterings that turned into rants, then into howls. You must have trembled every time I threw something in anger. You must have hated me. I should have let you go long ago, but I kept you prisoner against your will.

Say something. Please. From wherever you are — did you cry for me when I shut down? When I laughed because I didn’t know what else to do, while the realization of it all hit like a blow? Please, I don’t need forgiveness. I just need you to say you saw me. That what happened deserves sympathy. That I wasn’t invisible even though these are things I can never say to another soul.

Won’t you at least be the one to believe me? To see what happened in the dead of night, the things I dare not name, the things I dare not admit, the moment I gave up on myself. That night I surrendered, coward that I am. If I said it aloud, people would throw stones at me for not fighting back. But you — you were there. Please say it wasn’t my fault.

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And you, vase. My mother’s favorite, handmade. I remember the day you broke. My anger did it. I tried to glue you together, and you stayed for a while longer. Maybe that fracture bound us. Maybe that was when you started speaking to me. I poured myself into you, selfish as ever. I was told to apologize, and I should have, but even now someone has to remind me. How shallow I’ve become.

I lost you like a friend that never existed, slipping away as if it were the natural course of life. I probably won’t apologize for everything I put you through — not yet at least. You know I’ve always been tight‑lipped like that. But I am sorry for forgetting you for so long. Ashamed, even, that I needed someone else to remind me of you when you were so important to me back then. I’m sorry I broke you. I’m sorry I couldn’t be better than I was. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when they threw you away. You must have tried so hard to hold on to the little ground you had beneath your feet.

I’m sorry I’m not even sorry at all — not the way I usually am. I am so desperate for recognition, I’d rather you just say you cared instead of saying you forgive me. Maybe I’m as selfish as I’ve always been, as you’ve always seen me. I wanted to apologize, but look at me — twisting it into a plea for empathy, clawing for belonging in this lonely truth that I keep. I started with wanting to apologize, but I’ve only ended up asking something of you instead. My apology is nothing but another demand, another way of saying: please, don’t forget me and that night.

I don’t care about forgiveness. I care about validation. You were the only witness. You alone can drag me out of this swamp I’ve been drowning in for years. Dead or alive, I wish I had shattered you that night, used you as a weapon instead of a refuge. Instead of hiding inside you, escaping my own body, I’d have rather killed than stayed like that paralyzed duck…

Sorry for the way I say things. Sorry you had to be a silent witness when you wanted to defend so fiercely. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you hands and feet or a sharper defense. Sorry you have to live with such a painful memory and my demand that you never forget.

Sincerely, your mad roommate, your one and only poet, the one who wishes everyone else well — except us.

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Submitted for Wanderers Tavern — May Writing Challenge. Sumedh Pimplikar, Manisha❁

Now it’s your turn, Aziza, TUKHOR .

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