I was born in a small kitchenette on the West end of town. The buildings were sectioned off into small apartments that looked like cubicles. Little boxes for the living room, dining area, and bedrooms weren’t much more than closets. My mother had thought daily about how to get herself out, but once she had me she no longer focused on her life. She was almost as wide as she was long, but her curves made her attractive. Her large head was as big as a bowl and with its size she thought largely of how I would escape this tiny kitchenette.
It was hard work being a spoon in a kitchenette. With no dish washer we were neglected, left alone to sit in our own filth for sometimes days without so much as a rinse. My mother had grown into a sturdy serving spoon and was generous with her helpings. Although nice and helpful, she never seemed to get out of her prison. She had grown up in the very kitchenette she would die in.
“You are not like the others,” she told me on a regular basis. “Look at your trim body. You have no curves like the rest of us. You will be thrown out if you are not moved up.”
I did not understand what this meant when I was younger. I had hoped I would grow up strong and sturdy like my mother. It was only when I hit my twelfth year did I realize I would never be made of wood. The cheap metal that framed my body was unappealing yet the shape and slenderness would only be appreciated in a real kitchen. One that had different types of spoons for everything, could understand a beautiful, but not as helpful type of utensil.
One afternoon, my mother informed me that she had been talking with the candlestick. I knew of course, that they had been spending a lot of time together. At night when I was scared and went looking for her in the wooden drawer, I could not find her. At the time, I was unaware of how difficult it was for her to maneuver herself all the way into the dining area where she could converse with the candlestick. All I knew, was that it wasn’t our kind and that it was wrong. Sinful. And horrendously embarrassing. Even dating a fork was looked down upon, but something that was not even in the same room was unheard of. As sharp witted as the knives were about my mother’s loose habit, I knew even from a young age that she was plotting.
“I have been spending a great deal of time with the candlestick these past few nights.” She told me one winter evening in our utensil tray. I shuddered at the thought. “It seems that he can get us some silver polish.”
“Us?” I said.
It was then that she explained the necessity of disguise. To get out of the kitchenette I would have to be sold and in order to be sold, I would have to be worthy and in order to be worthy, I would have to be silver.
“But isn’t this cheating?” I asked when I saw the shiny polish contained in a dark gray bottle.
“Life isn’t always fair.” She said. “Everybody must know when to use their best tricks sometime.”