They had bought the red pot quite some time before, when they were first setting up house. They did not have much so, a lot of thought and care went into selecting it, matching the size to their hob, making sure it was non stick. Of course, making sure that it had a lid, which came plastic sealed to the top of the pot.
It was perfect and they were very happy with it. The red, non stick pot symbolizing in a way the start of their life together.
When they got home and took the plastic off, they found the pot had an unusual feature, not to call it design flaw. When the lid was off, because the handle so, so heavy and the pot so light, it would fall on the side.
Unacceptable … or maybe not. Because they loved it so much and what it stood for, they found it endearing, although it meant that, every time they used it one of them had to hold the handle, while the other filled the pot with whatever, till the weight balanced and they could let go.
Their pot was a constant source of jokes and laughter, and its flaw turned into a quality.
Years passed, as they do. They changed houses, bought new pots, new hobs, changed habits and then changed them again. Life moved on. The ill balanced pot would follow them around through all these moves, although now it was no longer used, it just stayed in the pantry lost among its more capacious and stylish brethren.
There came a time in the couple’s life when they were questioning everything.
Themselves, their choices, their status, their relationship, and although they did not officially separate, they started to do it in the day to day, in the small things that make a life together.
They would no longer eat together, watch TV together, do the shopping together. They were going through an identity crisis that made them forget who they had been for a large part of their life.
One day, rummaging through the pantry for a small pot, as he was going on a diet and decided smaller portions were called for, he stumbled over the small red pot. It was perfect! Just the size he needed for his couscous salad.
He took it out and, smiling to himself, he remembered all the times they laughed about its too chunky handle and how it was a pot to be handled by two people. He was upset with her so, he decided he did not need her, he was well able to use the pot by himself.
He boiled the water, measured the couscous, and when he was ready to pour it, in a split second of not paying attention he ended up pouring hot water on his feet with the pot spilled over.
His screams made her come running down the stairs. Without a minute to spare she covered his feet in a cold, wet towel and drove him to the emergency room.
The next few weeks she took care of him making sure he had everything he needed and that he was comfortable. The tops of his feet had been scalded by the boiling water, and were in need of constant care and attention to be protected from infection and to help them heal.
While changing his bandages she sometimes would shake her head disapprovingly and express her sadness that he did not ask her to hold the pot. It was too late though.
In the weirdest way the pot had brought them back together, and when she expressed her wish to just throw it away, he forbid it.
It was the lack of communication and openness that had got them there, not the pot. He should have trusted her, and she should have trusted him to go together through that changing phase of their life.
She smiled and nodded in agreement. She liked being persuaded by him.
The forced inactivity brought them back together. They started watching movies again, have meals together, and long chats about the world and its goings on.
They did not really use the pot now, it was a bit too dangerous, but they did display it in their kitchen as a reminder of their beginning, of their middle, and just as a reminder to make sure their end was also spent together.