Some things, once broken, aren’t worth the trouble of saving. Sweep them up. Dump them in the bin. Maybe there’s a pang if it was a favorite something. Maybe not even that. We live in the land of plenty where nothing is irreplaceable. In a day, a week, a month, we’ll have forgotten we ever had it, except in moments where a scent, a color, a song call the memory.

Few things are valuable enough, rare enough, to be worth saving. The painstaking work of collecting the pieces and fitting them back together, and sometimes you can’t. Sometimes a piece gets lost and the thing will never be whole again. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you don’t understand how they fit. Then there’s patience, waiting for the seal to set, the joint to harden, the bone to knit. The heart to mend.

For what. It’ll never be the same.

The message of our culture is disposable; it says, ‘Whatever you’ve broken, there’s another, a newer, shinier one, on the shelf, a later model on the showroom floor.’ Pristine.

One that doesn’t remind you of how it was broken.

That’s not what I meant to say about broken things. I meant to say sometimes they’re worth the saving. That they’ll never be the same again, but sometimes that doesn’t matter. That maybe something else is lost in the replacing. That the legend of breakage is history.