We never think about it, except when we need it. Then it is never where we think it should be. We curse it, saying things like, "Where did it go? Why is it never where it's supposed to be?"
We have stepped on it, kicked it, thrown it in the trash, retrieved it, laughed at it, carried it, forgotten it.
No one remembers where it came from. Undoubtedly, it was once new and shiny, though now, cracked and dirty, why bother recalling that?
Behind glass, a thousand years from now, when it is no longer useful, it will finally become the sacred object we never knew it to be but that it always was.