In my memory, there are these moments that shine like a treasure, all because of the love inside them. They are like a bunch of scattered puzzle pieces, and you need to put them all together to see the whole, beautiful picture of home. For me, one of the most important pieces of this puzzle is a porcelain bowl.
My grandma, she was someone who really loved life, and she especially loved all those porcelain things that had a story to tell. In my childhood memories—some are a bit blur, some are very clear—these bowls were not just for holding food. To me, they were like small pieces of art that were full of life. The bowls always had a lot of flowers on them, with super bright colours and intricate designs. That was my grandma’s style, and it was also a sign of our home. Those bright colours never seemed to fade, just like the warm moments we shared.
My grandma’s house had this rule for mealtimes that you could not break. When it was time to eat, everyone in the family had to sit down at the table together. We would form a circle, and we would share stories about our day, or just enjoy the quiet peace. I still remember thinking that the ritual before eating was a bit troublesome. I had to be like a small student, and politely greet every single person at the table. “Grandpa, let’s eat. Grandma, let’s eat. Eldest uncle, let’s eat. Eldest aunt, let’s eat…” I had to say this for everyone at the table, just like reciting a text, before I could finally start eating. Back then, I used to secretly feel annoyed by this old-fashioned tradition, thinking it was wasting my precious time to go out and play.
But time has this magic filter. That thing I found so annoying back then is now one of my most precious and warm memories. Those greetings, full of the smell of good food, and the kind faces of my elders that I saw reflected in the bowl, and the simple but serious ritual that was repeated over and over—all of these things finally came together to form my deepest feeling for my grandma’s house.
That porcelain bowl with all the flowers was not just for holding rice and dishes. It was also holding a lot of love and rules, and the warmth of my family. It’s like a small version of my grandma’s house, and a very important part of my childhood memories. It taught me that traditions are not there to hold you back, but to remind you that even the most normal moments are precious because of the love in them.
Now, when I hold a porcelain bowl, I can almost smell the food from my grandma’s house, and I can hear those familiar words, “Let’s eat.” The moments I used to find troublesome have become the softest part of my heart. This small porcelain bowl holds more than just food; it holds my roots, my love, and a memory I can never, ever lose.
