Family invaluability



The table set of knife and fork was given to his father by his older sister Zina. It was more than fifty years ago. The gift was not for a celebration. They just came to visit us. Probably not with empty hands. At that time, the dining knives were not very in motion, and the fork was then used only by the father. Mom covered on the table - myself and me ordinary, and daddy - of course only this one.



Zina's aunt was diagnosed with cancer that same winter, and she disappeared very quickly.



Of course, this fork was not for the father the only memory of his sister, but when one day the fork fell on the floor and the skull split - he was terribly upset. He pulled out of the box with the tool hard, chocolate-like pieces of carpentry glue, cooked it, gathered all the debris on that glue, wrapped something, and did not touch for two days until it grabbed.



As you can see in the photo, the whole villa.



A father of three years surpassed his older sister.



The villi, along with some other rarities, was hidden by my mother.



I brought it to me once, when I was already married and lived in my own house. I have been using it for more than 30 years. At the guests, it happened that the same appliances were placed on the table, but I always went to the kitchen with my own. There are no other houses in my house. This is strange to me.



One day I will not be there, and one of my sons will take the fork.

Probably...



I add :

I remember that arrival of aunt Zina, and we were walking through the courtyards, the father saw them from a distance, and said to me, "Wow, - aunt Zina and uncle Vania came (and Vanya Belash is his army friend. He came to his father after the dembel and married Zina.)



And I still remember exactly how then my father was upset at the broken fork. How I cooked that glue. Showing and explaining everything. How then, collecting the pieces on the glue, sent me to the room, so that I did not interrupt the process with a discomfort. As he wrapped the glue with many mounds of white thread, as he then placed this fork higher on the kitchen closet, and told me strictly and supplicantly that in no case should touch. And then, when my mom came back from school, the first thing she said was that the fork was broken. He glued it, and it was in the kitchen closet, and he didn’t climb there.



My father died, I was seven. He was a rare man and father. and husband. And this fork is valuable to me not by the material of the cranks and teeth, but by what is associated with it. It’s daddy’s sadness, and then the joy of sticking up. And how he then removed the glue with a squeeze... And as if on the table before him there was always this fork.



And now with me.



Decades of years.