9 April 2020, An item you kept

My Mothers Milk Jug Sophia Paskell

The symbol of a happy family. A dream.

I only recall my mother using the jug once, and it left such a deep impression.

 I was 3 or 4, living in a run down batch with my two brothers and my mother.

That particular morning the table was set, the morning sun lighting the room and the milk jug sat in the middle of the table. A white ceramic jug with a red label- a picture of a happy milkman and a smiling cow- so far removed from the realities of milk production.

And about as fake, we sat there that morning like a happy family would. Mum was dressed in a long dress. She looked so pretty, like a normal mum should, and she smiled that morning.

We sat at the table, all of us together. It was a new felt joy of the normality I craved.

Normally my mum would still be in bed and my brother and I would climb up on to the kitchen bench to reach the bowls. We would eat breakfast on the floor watching cartoons. This was fine too, but I hated the domineering role my older brother took on. He was always the self determined boss of us all.

But not this morning. This morning we play a different game. A fame of dolls houses with dolls whose smiles are painted on. A happy family sitting at the table together, "Please pass me the milk", 

"Most certainly dear".

Dolls arms move rigidly, but I didn't feel rigid this morning, I felt the softness of love, calm and so promising.

We acted out the scene of a simple breakfast shared. "What the fuck is actually going on here" crossed my mind, but I let it keep going as I loved playing dolls house so much.

The jug now sits on my kitchen bench. 

It reminds me of how a home should feel. 

It reminds me that painted smiles do not hide energy.

It reminds me to forgive my mother.