The Broken Man

About this time 32 years ago, I gave my husband a little plaster fireman that a friend painted for me. It sat on our shelf  by the fireplace for 29 years.

This morning my husband came in and lay beside me on the bed. "I have a confession to make," he said.

"What's that," I asked, still half asleep.

"You know that little fireman you got me that Dee made a long time ago? I broke him."

I was quiet for a moment. "When did you break him?"

"Sometime ago when I was cleaning the shelves for you, when you were really sick."

He had hidden him on a high shelf behind the TV speaker, turning him sort of butt out so I wouldn't notice the little guy was broken. And were it not for the fact that I plan to clean those shelves thoroughly today, dear husband might have gotten away with it for quite some time.




My little guy, still whole (a 2013 photo).

Now he has a concussion.

Not to mention, a broken helmet.

Here he is with a few tiny pieces (that were stuck inside
of him and I didn't see them until I took the above photo).

After I rose from bed, I looked to see the damage. It's a pretty big hole, and I know nothing about plaster. I will ask an artist friend if he is fixable. I won't throw him away until I know, but he will be relegated to a closet shelf, poor guy.