The bowl slipped from my hands.
I didn't pay attention to its tin foil cover, slick from buttered noodles, when I tried to put it back into the refrigerator. The foil slipped against the glass, betraying my fingers.
I stared in disbelief, a moment's hesitation as the milk white container toppled downward. My hands flew toward it. Too late. It fell and shattered on the floor.
Not long ago I would have cried, knelt beside the broken shards and lamented the loss as evidence of my own foolhardiness. I would have berated myself for my own stupidity, battered my own emotions for the rest of the day.
Not this time.
My daughter and I worked, side by side, placing the pieces into the waste can, sweeping bits too tiny to grasp, vacuuming, then scrubbing the buttery noodle residue from the floor.
“Things happen,” we laughed.
Then we stood up and moved on.