She asked me, “how do you know he’s special?”
I laughed. That was a loaded question.
“How did I know he was special?”
I asked more slowly, to myself.
The question hung in the air like a thick fog. The answer landed in my lap like a ton of bricks.
“He bought me a teapot.” I replied, a slow grin creeping across my face.
“A little white China teapot with tiny blue flowers all around. Who’s handle sits on the side and the spout on the front. It came from his trip to Japan. That’s when and how I knew he was special.”
She balked at me, unable to understand the logic behind the statement.
“How does a stupid teapot mean he’s special?”
I laughed again.
“When you can understand the teapot you can begin to understand why he is something I cherish.”
She would never understand the importance of a little teapot and the urgent void to be loved, accepted, understood and listened to that teapot filled.
Anyone could have gone anywhere and brought back a T-shirt, a shot glass, or any gas station souvenir.
Instead he dug deeper and thought back to conversations.
He brought me a teapot because he remembered I like tea.
He cared enough to remember something I needed.
That is how I know he is something special.
He is something different.
He is what I need.
He bought me a little white with blue flowers China teapot.
Between The Tales 