Right Above the Sink

On our kitchen windowsill, right above the sink, is an empty, scratched up, little plastic liquor bottle.  The kind sold on airplanes.  I’m not sure where it came from.  But I do know how it got there.

I have been collecting old bottles and jars for some time now.  We have found them over the years on pieces of property we’ve owned, and on beaches.  We’ve dug them up, pulled them from under rocks, retrieved them from the water.  

As my collection has grown, and my children started to show an interest in helping me collect things, I have gotten pickier about what I’ll actually bring home.  My preference is for old cork-topped bottles. I like blue, pinkish, clear, and green glass. And very rarely do I hang onto something cracked or broken.  Only intact bottles or jars make it home.

One day, years ago, I noticed a little plastic bottle on our kitchen counter. It was dirty, and thankfully empty of whatever it had once held.  With a grimace, I picked it up with two fingers and put it in the kitchen wastebasket.

Later that day, I found the same little plastic bottle on the bathroom counter near the sink.  It had soap bubbles in it.  Obviously someone had been trying to clean it.  It was scratched up, and cracked.  Most of the label was torn off. I could see that it had been a little liquor bottle.  Again with two fingers, and probably a look of disgust, I picked it up and threw it in the bathroom wastebasket.

“Hey, where’d this filthy little liquor bottle come from?” I called throughout the house to no one in particular.

No answer.

“Hmm.  Well, it’s gross.  And I don’t want to find it anywhere again,” I finished hollering out.

Still no answer from anywhere in the house.

That evening after dinner I went upstairs to start getting kids into pajamas. There, in the upstairs hallway, was the little plastic bottle again.  I couldn’t believe it.  The bubbles from earlier were gone, the label was now completely removed, and it had been dried off.

“Okay, what’s the deal with this plastic liquor bottle?” I again hollered to anyone who could hear me.  “I don’t know who’s playing with this.  But don’t. It’s gross.  We don’t know where it came from or what kind of germs it has on it.  I don’t want this thing in the house anymore.”  And for the third time that day, I picked it up with two fingers and deposited it in a wastebasket.  This time in the upstairs bathroom.

A short while later, as I was hustling everyone to brush teeth and wash hands and faces, I found four-year-old Anna alone in her room, red-faced, with eyes full of tears.

I asked her what was wrong.

She sniffled.  And as so often happens when I show any concern during one of the kids’ crying episodes, she erupted in a new round of sobs.  I sat down on the bed and rubbed her back.  

I asked if she was okay.

She nodded, still crying.

“Okay.  So what’s wrong?” I asked again.

“I found you a bottle for your ‘lection,” she stammered through sobs. “I washed it up and made it pretty. And I keep findin’ it in the garbage. I found it in the kitchen garbage. I found it in the downstairs baffroom garbage.  And now,” a new round of heavy whimpers, “now, I just found it in the upstairs baffroom garbage.  I wanted it to be a present for you.”

“But Honey,” I started to say.  I was going to explain to her that I collect old glass bottles, preferably cork-topped, and that I really prefer blue, pinkish, clear, or green glass.  I was going to tell her that this was just a plastic liquor bottle.  The kind they sell on airplanes.  I was going to tell her that it was germy, that we don’t know where it came from. That it really was just garbage. But, just this once, I stopped.

She was looking up at me through the tears.  Waiting for me to say something.

“Well,” I began.  “I was the one who kept throwing it away because I didn’t know who it belonged to. And I thought it might be dirty. It’s a bottle, probably from an airplane.  Where did you find it?”

“I just found it,” she shrugged.  “But if it’s from a’ airplane, how did it get down here?”

I said that I didn’t know.  And that I guessed that was just part of what made it special.

“Yeah,” she said.  “Do you like it, Mom?”

I said that I liked it, and that I bet we could get it really clean if we put it through the dishwasher.  

She dragged an already damp sleeve across her face to mop up the rest of the tears, and smiled.  We hugged for a minute.  And that dirty little plastic liquor bottle, the kind sold on airplanes, found a place in my heart.

We put it through the dishwasher.  And it held up just fine.  From there it ended up on the windowsill.  Right above the kitchen sink.  With some of my other special things  

For me, it’s been a constant reminder.  Of what matters.  And what doesn’t.  And that I need to keep watchful.  Because sometimes what’s valuable might at first glance appear to be just garbage. And sometimes something as unassuming as a little plastic liquor bottle might turn out to be pretty special.  

I know.  I’ve got one of those.  On the kitchen windowsill.  Right above the sink.