“You can’t pour from an empty cup.”

I think about this as I mix the wet and dry ingredients together. Surely, you can see when the cup is nearing empty? All you have to do is look in the cup, assuming the container isn’t clear.

But, you can feel it, too, can’t you, as it’s getting lighter and easier to tilt? It’s emptying into a vastness that will not merely contain it, but incorporate the liquids into something better.

Assuming I don’t burn it because something else required my attention. Assuming this particular oven doesn’t run hot and the elevation hasn’t changed. Assuming I even pour it into the dry ingredients, or don’t spill it on the countertop because the container isn’t light, but it’s made of glass, and glass is actually really heav– y.

The mess surrounds me. Shards of glass litter the floor like confetti amongst a pile of muck. It doesn’t just surround me, though. The impact has sent it all across the kitchen, splashing cupboards, flowing under the refrigerator, underneath chairs, not to mention my clothes…

And just like that glass mixing bowl, I break, too. Only I don’t know where all my pieces have gone. They’re not hiding under the fridge, my ingredients are not splattered against the walls.

How did I not see the contents of my being coming to a dripping point? How did I not know I may have been over-pouring? How am I supposed to measure how much of myself to give when I don’t know how much I’m pouring, or how much I have left? Did I look away or choose to ignore it? Do I have a leak and I simply missed the opportunity to patch it up like a tire on a country road?

I can plainly see that the glass isn’t going to be able to be put back together, but what about me? Is this something an adhesive can fix? Am I now something that can never again hold what it once did? Am I just an empty cup? Or am I, too, shattered beyond repair, no matter how much I clean the mess?