A Birdbath Made of Broken Plates

For years, I saved every plate, cup and bowl that broke in our house. My husband thought I was strange. I told him I'd make something with them someday. This spring, at sixty-three, I finally signed up for a mosaic class.

The studio was in an old garage behind a bakery. Our teacher handed out safety glasses and little nippers for cutting tile. "Smash it," she said. "Then put it back together better."

I brought a box of pieces: my grandmother's blue willow plate that cracked in a move, the mug my son painted in second grade, the yellow bowl from our first apartment, a teacup from our wedding china. I laid them out on a concrete birdbath in a spiral, filling the spaces with tiny bits of mirror.

It took six Saturdays. When I grouted it and wiped away the haze, the colors came alive. There was my son's handwriting, broken in half. There was a piece of willow tree, and next to it, a sliver of gold rim from our wedding.

It sits in our garden now. The robins come every morning. My husband sits beside it with his coffee and points out pieces. "That's the anniversary dinner," he says. "That's the night the dog knocked over the table."