Some things can’t be fixed. I learned this painful lesson the hard way when I was 4 years old. I had my heart set on a toy steam shovel. A tiny bucket at the end of a string could be reeled in to lift a teaspoon of mud. A little boy could build an interstate highway system with it.
My mother bought it in October for Christmas, putting it in layaway and paying for it with a dime or three nickels and sometimes a quarter at a time. She was as pleased as I was on Christmas morning when she saw my face. I took it out at once to the alley in the back of the house, eager to make it work. After digging a small hole in the ground, I hurried inside to see the rest of Christmas. When I returned to the steam shovel an hour later, it lay in a tiny heap of tin and cotton string, as flat as a pancake. I looked up through my tears to see a large truck disappearing down the alley.
I was not really worried. My mother would fix it. She fixed everything — a missing button, a skinned knee, a broken flashlight. She could fix a broken heart. I carried the remains into the house and handed them over. I couldn’t understand her tears, but she knew she couldn’t fix it, and had no more dimes and nickels for a replacement Christmas. Some things can’t be fixed, not even by a mother.