The Book of Form and Emptiness

by Ruth Ozeki

I loved that spoon. It was old and made of silver—maybe not pure silver, maybe mixed with some alloy or something—but it didn’t matter, because whoever made it really knew what they were doing. They knew how to make a spoon that was exactly the right shape to hold in your hand and put into your mouth, even if your hands were still small and your mouth was little. And I was positive that someone beautiful once ate something delicious with that spoon, because I could feel the memory of beautiful lips, and I could taste the deliciousness every time I put the spoon in my mouth and heard it humming with pleasure. Whoever made that spoon made it for that purpose, and the spoon was happy. It would always be happy, as long as it was helping someone eat. That’s why I always ate with it, and why I carried it around with me all the time, and why I was afraid it would get stolen. The rhyme said the dish would run away with the spoon, and I used to believe that could happen. I pictured it as a kind of kidnapping scenario, and I got in the habit of never leaving the spoon alone when my back was turned, especially if there was a dish around. Instead, I’d lick it clean and put it in my pocket.