Little Mixing Bowl of Memories

I have a white small mixing bowl with two flat handles and tiny blue flowers. It looks a lot like the one my family used to have.

When my dad was alive he would eat cereal every evening. I would sit on his lap and share while we talked about this or that. Eventually as my sisters got older we would all want to share and be near him so the bowl got bigger and bigger until it was the size of a giant mixing bowl. The bowl I have is exactly like the one Dad and I used to share when I was the only one in his lap.

At that age, perhaps five or so, his schizophrenia wasn’t as developed or devastating. It’s one reason I keep the bowl around, I think. Though having it also reminds me of how he became someone who wasn’t my dad. How he became an abusive father and husband. Someone that suffered brain damage in a serious car accident, which I was a part of, and began to terrorize his wives, children, and step-children. There was no more eating out of the same bowl. Childhood was over for us.

Some days I can’t look at the bowl. I want to smash it or just throw it in the trash. I want it out of my site. Good riddance. Like saying good riddance to all of the bad memories. Other times I can eat out of it and smile. Usually if I eat cereal.

I hate the friggin bowl and I love it. I hate my friggin father and I love him.

Perhaps we all have an object we love to hate and hate to love. Do we destroy these memories or learn to live with them? Should I keep the bowl or throw it out?