The Sideboard's Chipped Ceramic Knob

The Ceramic Knee of the Sideboard Apologies are currency, and I am bankrupt

The spray bottle is heavy in my right hand. It is an industrial-grade trigger sprayer, the kind that costs twelve dollars and smells like chlorine and regret. I am standing in the kitchen of 42B Oakhaven Drive. The linoleum is yellowed, peeling at the corners like sunburnt skin. There is a body in the living room. I do not look at the body. The body is not part of the liturgy. The body is the problem. The body is the reason I am here, but the body is also the reason I must leave.

I look at the sideboard. It is oak, dark and varnished, with a single ceramic knob on the drawer. The knob is chipped. A small, white fracture on the glaze. I reach out and touch it. My glove is blue nitrile, tight against my knuckles. I feel the coldness of the ceramic through the rubber.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

The words are flat. They have no inflection. They are not an apology to the owner of the house. The owner is dead. The owner is a collection of fluids and broken bones on the rug. I cannot apologize to the rug. The rug is stained. The stain is permanent. The stain is a map of where the heart stopped beating. I cannot apologize to the stain.

I apologize to the knob.

“I’m sorry it’s chipped,” I say. “I’m sorry it’s been dropped. I’m sorry it’s been held by hands that were shaking.”

The knob does not answer. It is a piece of pottery. It was made in a factory in Ohio in 1974. It has no memory. But I have memory. I have the memory of the way the light hit the chipped edge. It was a small, white star in the dark wood. I will not touch it again. I will not polish it. I will leave it chipped. That is the rule. The objects stay as they are. The objects are the only things that tell the truth. The body lies. The body is a performance. The body says, “I was alive,” but the body is now saying, “I am meat.” The knob says, “I am ceramic.” The knob is honest.

I move to the table. There is a coffee mug on the table. It is white, with a blue rim. The handle is broken off. I pick it up. It is light. Too light. The handle is gone. I hold the broken edge against my thumb. It is sharp. It cuts through the nitrile. I feel the sting. A small, hot pain.

“I’m sorry you’re incomplete. I’m sorry you’re waiting for a hand that isn’t coming back.”