I don’t think they make cutting boards like ours anymore. It is made of a very thick plastic and has resided by our sink for over fifteen years.
We’ve minced garlic, sliced cucumbers, cut peaches, cut pears, squeezed lemons and halved grapefruits. And then yesterday morning my husband halved his apple and the cutting board all at once. The crack was loud – startling like a bird hitting a windowpane where it takes minute to figure out what just happened. We both stared, in a strange way amazed and proud of his strength.
“Lets just keep the better half, we don’t really need to buy a new one?” I said turning back to my morning cup of tea.
“Good idea,” agreed my husband as he threw the smaller half in the trash along with his apple core.
Like my son many years ago who held on to strands of his yellow blanket, we both readily agreed we had an attachment to our board that had been a silent witness to the nourishment and growth of our three children and ourselves over the years.
“What happened to the cutting board?” my son asked as he sliced his bagel.
“Dad cut it in half, but we’ve decided to keep it.”
“That’s good,” he answered as he gathered up scattered sesame seeds.
As I wash our broken cutting board thinking about Father’s Day a few days away, the timing feels right. In the Jewish tradition, transitions are marked by breaking something. We break a glass when we marry, we break bread on the Sabbath, and there is the tearing of the Kria when someone dies. The Rabbi tears the shirts of those mourning the loss of a loved one – respectfully celebrating the end of an era.
Like a ripped shirt, the suddenness of our broken board is a marker on our counter – acknowledging painful loss in my family. There is a time for many of us when we face the sadness of losing our elderly parents even before they actually pass on.
For me our cracked cutting board signifies the breaking apart of my relationship with my elderly Jewish father. He still lives, but not the way I knew him. Over the last two years, the changes have been subtle, only noticed by those who have loved and lived with him for decades.
We converse but don’t connect. His jokes make little sense as he reports about his Florida life – repetitive discussions that leave me feeling lonely. His mind is not the same – a diagnosis is unclear and unnecessary. I know the truth and his mind is going. It is memories of him that now comfort me. He would move quickly around our childhood kitchen making me salami sandwiches announcing, “Never forget the secret to a good sandwich is fresh bread!” His mind was as quick as his movements – his parenting imperfect but full of love.
I dry and display our broken board by our sink as my daughter pours her bowl of cereal. “What happened to the cutting board?” she innocently asks.
“Oh Dad thought it was time that we use the better half.” She tilts her head and decides not to ask anymore. This Father’s Day, I now understand the importance of something so simple as our cracked cutting board. Perhaps it can be a reminder across cultures, religions, and generations that when relationships break apart, holding on to the better part through our memories nourishes the hunger of a slow goodbye.
Priscilla Dann-Courtney of Boulder is a clinical psychologist. EDITOR’S NOTE: This is an online-only column and has not been edited.
