When we were kids, my brother and I fought over who got to eat their morning cereal with the sugar spoon.
It made more sense at the time.
The sugar spoon stood out among the other, more ordinary spoons in the utensil drawer. It was shorter, and had a rounder, um, spoon part. It was clearly special.
I liked it because it was different, and I have always liked to be different.
My little brother liked it because I liked it. And there’s nothing that makes a person who needs to be different crazier than having someone duplicate their every move.
I’m fairly certain that for my brother, making me crazy was a big part of the appeal.
So we fought every morning. We bargained, we bribed, we whined, we cajoled, we pinched each other and raced up the stairs to the kitchen as if the house was on fire, we got up early and snuck to the kitchen in hopes of outsmarting the other, frequently resorted to melodrama, and occasionally we came to blows. The privilege of eating with the sugar spoon was just that important. Obviously.
A variety of family sugar spoon bylaws and amendments were enacted regarding the fair use and turn-taking protocol of said spoon.
And still we fought.
Years later, I went off to college and the sugar spoon, like so many pieces of childhood, remained at home with my mother.
Or so I thought.
My brother died in a car accident about ten years ago. When my mom and I went through his belongings after the funeral, I found the ardored sugar spoon nestled among his most prized possessions.
Of course, I brought it home with me. I think of him every single morning when I open my utensil drawer.
If I could have just one more day with my brother, I’d let him have the damned spoon.