In college, the boyfriends of two of my roommates collaborated to cook them Valentines Day dinner. This was a sweet gesture, and the most extreme example I had ever seen of the some-men-have-never-learned-to-cook-or-clean stereotype. My most vivid memory of the state of our kitchen and my emotions was the can of hardening tomato paste with a jagged hole in the top, and my once-nice paring knife sitting beside it. We did have a can opener then. At least I’d have a good story.
Those boyfriends made me smile again today. I’m self-isolating, listening to Shostakovitch, and making a hearty soup in case I get sick. I got a tomato can from my small cabinet of extra canned food. When what may have been the same can opener started falling apart in my hands, it was a big enough deal to ask you to appreciate it, but not enough to cause another tightening of my chest. Instead, my breath deepened, knowing that if those boyfriends could do it, so can we.