Day 8: Empty Glass Bear

Simple, small, empty, dust covered. This empty glass bear once held maple syrup, given to my ex by his mother for a Christmas present one year. The bear originally wore a knit hat that quickly become encrusted in syrup and had to be removed before the ants that frequent my kitchen found a new winter home. The syrup didn't last very long as my husband drowned stacks of pancakes I'd make most Sundays in the amber goo. When the last slippery, sticky drop dripped from his glass feet, I washed it out in hot water and set it on the top kitchen shelf. "Why are you keeping that?" my husband had asked. I don't remember if I had a legitimate answer or if I just fell back on "I don't know," but the bear became a fixture in my kitchen and, until today, still stood tall, almost out of reach, but still within view.  At the top of the unblocked white shelves set on metal prongs shoved into a blue-painted hole-covered wall, the bear watched over the rice cakes and tea boxes. I noticed him each time I reached for something from the shelves or stood by the single kitchen counter that extends just feet away. As I drop this into my recycling bin, let me be reminded that slim stature is no reason to hold onto something so clearly empty.