My family had an Indian coffee cup that my dad found in the woods when he was a boy in Virginia. It was painted in an interesting pattern, and though it was missing the grip, a museum offered him fifty dollars for it around the time, which translates into good money today, you know? I would look at it in my hands occasionally, turning it this way and that way and marvelling at it and wondering about the tribe it belonged to. When I was 13, I was looking it in my sisters' bedroom and dropped it onto the wooden floor, and it shattered into several pieces. The room was spartan, with no clutter or anything on the floor, but we could never find a rather large shard that belonged to it. It was a rather large piece and we scoured everywhere in the room for it, but never found it. My dad was not angry with me about it. He looked at me, smiled and said that stranger things will happen in my life, but I find that hard to top. 
