Tucked away in the depths of my house, there is a mint green, mesh cart brimming with craft supplies where a plastic purple bowl perches on the top, like a queen on her throne. The bowl is a dark orchid that emits power and confidence. The bowl has a naive and toddler-like design, but has the matured knowledge of the past. The bowl is translucent, and in warm radiating sunlight, it projects the luminous purple onto anything below it, almost as if it's trying to spread its influence. Dictatorship, or selflessness, I do not know, but my admiration for it remains the same. The bowl is worn with hundreds of scratches on its cheap plastic surface, all only surface level, displaying its resilience and unwavering sense of self. The faded grooves in the bowl cling on to memories that now, only they will remember. The bowl is made of common, cheap and slightly flexible plastic, but the bowl is priceless in its history. The bowl has a wide circular base, around twelve centimeters in diameter, perfect for stability in a small child's hands. The base fans out to widening sides, somewhat like a fat ice cream cone with a flat bottom. The bowl is lightweight, but is burdensome in the weight of the past. Once overflowing with food, the bowl is now only a gentle reminder of childhood glee, spewing nostalgia. The bowl has small designs, ingrained in the plastic, hinting at its personality. The base of the bowl has a small clover in the center, surrounded by concentric circles; a ruler in a sea of people. On the bottom, the bowl has few manufacturing details, but a strong reminder of its insignificance andworthlessness. To others, this bowl is just an object, devoid of personality, but to me it serves as a doorway to the past and a character with stronger beliefs than most.
The bowl is not just a bowl, but it is also a figment of my imagination. It is practically worthless monetarily, but is worth more gold to me, because of its intricate entanglement in the web of my core memories. I can’t even remember when I got the bowl, or when it suddenly appeared in my memories. What I do know is that it added a splash of much needed color and familiarity to my otherwise chaotic toddling days. I used to come home with my sister, buzzing with joy and immediately running to the pantry for a snack. Instinctively, I would get my small stepping stool. The ladder had two steps, which were faded white, with small, rubber, green polka dots on the steps, to make it less slippery. I would reach up on my tippy toes, barely nudging the cabinet open above the counter, and would clumsily latch onto the bowl. Many of my fondest memories included snacking at my wood table, reaching my stubby fingers into the purple, plastic bowl. The importance of the bowl was never its use, it was its presence. There wasn’t one specific moment that flooded the bowl with worth, but rather an unhurried collection of snapshots from my past.
Moving along my personal timeline, as I got older I had less and less spare time and time alone to myself, which was almost disheartening, as if I was losing a piece of myself. Slowly, the bowl faded into the constant, machine-like whirring background noise of my life. But as time went on, it felt as if happiness was being sucked out of me and for the life of me, I could not figure out why. One day, my mom was cleaning out the kitchen and stumbled upon the plastic dishes and utensils. I felt an immediate sense of nostalgia roll over me and the missing pieces of my identity clicked together; the itch in my brain finally scratched. If you listened closely enough, you would almost be able to hear the “clink” of the pieces as they fit snuggly back together and settled into my brain. I asked my mom for the bowl, unsure with what excuse I would be able to come up with. I pondered for a bit and eventually decided. I would use it for crafts! I nested it carefully in my hands, making sure not to drop it, even though I was sure it couldn’t be broken. Even then, I knew the strength that the bowl carried. From then on, I used the bowl for every form of arts and crafts you could imagine. After all, who was I to be one to discriminate? The bowl held glitter abominations, but burdens too. It served as an escape, a place of adaptability, imagination, and adventure, as the issues in the world slowly dawned on me. This phase brought an equal amount of significance to the bowl, if not more. Now, it serves as a reminder of myself and a sense of strength and resilience to be admired.
Recalling my earliest childhood memories, I now see how the bowl shaped my childhood and who I am today. There were definitely ups and downs, but each with their importance. The positives outweigh the negatives, but the negatives aren’t even truly unhelpful to my past. The bowl was a place where I could channel my emotions and learn more about myself. If I had a bad day, I could eat a snack or make an eye-catching slime to instantly cheer myself up. On the other hand, I wouldn’t process my emotions or attempt to face them; I would just smother them in the world of gluttony or glitter. Additionally, the bowl allowed me to disguise my isolation as creativity. I honestly didn’t have very many friends when I was little, and instead of socializing with others, I would always find myself back with the same stupid purple bowl. It was the only real friend that I had that I could trust. But with this, my imagination thrived, allowing me to do what I can today, and the more time I spent hovering around the bowl, the more I realized what I actually needed. I didn’t despise socializing; I was afraid. Afraid to let others get to know who I actually was and give a piece of myself away. Although somewhere around that time that I finally saw that my worth was not defined by others' opinions. I still didn’t have very many friends, but I was content and fulfilled, and eventually, I, too, found my people. I had a safe space, and being able to use the bowl felt like a warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders and a constant reminder that I wasn’t alone. With the bowl, I was able to reach around my fear and keep the positives. It showed my self-worth and adaptability as time went on. It served as a reminder that some things will never change, and almost a promise to the little me, to never let go of my imagination, and that things would turn out okay. And so far, things have seemed to find their way to the right place. So still, tucked away in the depths of my house, there is a mint green, mesh cart brimming with craft supplies where a plastic purple bowl perches on the top, like a queen on her throne.
By Amanda B- 7th