A bowl, container as it is, contains within itself memories and moments. But not inside. Its most invaluable content was never really inside, but accompanying it and, in happy moments, embracing it. The hands that held it and are no longer there are the true imperceptible imprint of that concave piece of ceramic. The seal of its base is not enough to match the unmatched value of each ephemeral moment that its walls were caressed by a loved one who will never raise it again. The price that was put on it would always be insufficient and unfair because: how much is the touch of the one you loved worth?; What would not be paid with money to share again a single moment with whoever you wanted together with those then insignificant objects, now relics?
The void of a bowl is not filled with matter because it is not spatial. The substitutable and replaceable space does not satisfy an object that by cruel fortune transcends it, at least when we look at it. Rather, its tiniest interstices between molecules, its concavity and its aura fill it and richly populate it with feelings that permeated the capricious and fleeting time. Thus, a piece of baked clay is the memory and projection of someone who no longer exists, many times oneself and too many others someone else. For this reason, a bowl is worth as much as the person it kept company with, as the best moments with her and as the sweetest and dearest of memories with her.