When I first moved to Columbus, I had nothing but a futon, so I went to yard sales and stocked up. One thing I found was a set of nesting bowls exactly the same type and color as my mom's.
Years later, someone asked to borrow one, and I turned them down because I had a sudden flash of my mom's anxiety whenever we baked. She had gotten her bowls as a wedding gift and didn't want them broken, so I was repeatedly cautioned whenever I handled them. When I realized it was that voice in my head preventing me from loaning it out, and not my own, I promptly handed my own bowls over.
Twelve years later and the second casualty has occurred. I did a little jig and cleaned up the glass, thinking of the new bowl I'd get in its place.