We have three wood spoons.

One we got as a wedding gift. It’s a good brand. It’s strong. It has a few scaly patches that may splinter your tongue, but it’s still in good shape. It’s the biggest of the bunch.

Another I’ve had for years. It’s rough and flaky. Not because it ended up in the dishwasher a few too many times, but because I probably bought it at the dollar store when I had just graduated from college.

And then there’s the third spoon. Its bowl is closer to a circle than an oval. Its handle not much bigger than a pencil. But when my fingers fall on this one, I smile.

The third spoon is smooth from decades of stirring. There’s no telling how many circles it has made around the pots and pans in my family. In spite of its age, there are no splinters, rough patches, or flakes. It looks like it could outlive us all.

It might.

I got this spoon as a hand-me-down. It was my grandmother’s. I don’t know how long she had it, but when I pick it up, I see her arthritic knuckles and neatly trimmed fingernails, her cream-softened hands and the love she had for making food for her family.

In the mornings, when I pick up the spoon to stir my steel cut oatmeal, I imagine her stirring her own version of the breakfast classic, which she called “mush.” I wonder how many times she made it? I wonder how many pounds of cracked oats she went through over the years? How many times did my grandfather sat down to a steaming bowl? My mother? Her siblings?

Those questions and the memories that flood back when I use the third spoon are what make it special.

It isn’t just a spoon. It’s an artifact.

The third spoon is teaching me how important it is to listen. It’s teaching me that new and flashy isn’t always best. It’s teaching me the importance of long lasting-quality, family, history and shared meals.

If anyone else picks up that spoon, they won’t hear the stories and lessons I do. They won’t picture my grandma’s grey, short, permed hair. They won’t taste her “Posner’s” chicken or spaghetti sauce with grated carrots.

But I will.

The third spoon connects me to her, even though she left this earth years ago.

For that I’m grateful. It makes me want to listen more carefully. It makes me want to sit down with my family. It makes me want to buy quality products that might last for generations.

But most of all, it makes me want to smile. And so, I do.