(And for all the other caregivers. Alternate title "The Anti-Spoon Theory, A Companion Piece".)
I am a spoon caddy. A spoon caddy looks like this:
I am useful and needed, but people don't pay me much mind. All they want are the spoons. Always the damn spoons. And those who need the spoons that I hold? People look at them. People ask about them. People offer help to them.
It's okay most of the time. The people with the spoons need help. They need to be asked after. They need things like me, the holder. I organize. I keep everything upright. I am durable and stable. I am the backbone of the team, so to speak.
I have holes. They allow me to breathe. Over time these holes can get gunked up. Dust collects. Little bits of food stuck on spoons not properly cleansed, tiny chunks that scrape off on the edges, filling the holes, making it harder to catch my breath.
No-one notices. Some days it seems as if no-one even cares - all they care about are the spoons and their people users. I dull. I gasp for breath. Somebody should pay attention to the caddy, the one who offers just the right sized spoon when needed. The one who always has a seemingly ample supply. Somebody … somebody should come along here and there and wash me off, clear my holes, give me a shine with a soft cloth.
I am the spoon caddy. I am strong, resilient and steadfast. Somebody - anybody - really ought to notice. To offer a buff. To mumble a word of thanks. Every now and then the spoons should go to another holder. Or lie flat on the counter. Or let them be jumbled in the drawer with the forks and the knives and the wee condiment spears. Just for awhile. Just for a short while. The caddy needs a rest. I need. I need a rest.
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