I inherited the furniture No one else wanted: Old wood, cherry and walnut, Spotted with rings Chinked on the corners. The table has a scar From where the chandelier crashed down once. The china hutch is missing A small piece of trim On the bottom right cabinet, But the paned glass windows sparkle And draw the eye away from the flaw. The buffet is scratched From where grandkids Ran toy cars over the top, nicked From sharp trivets, hardware Dulled from years of use. The dining room chairs creak, Crimson cushions now threadbare, Needlepoint faded to an odd shade. The damage is the part I cherish, The reminder of you, night after night Sitting at this table, Sunday dinners, Birthdays and holidays, placing steaming dishes on the buffet, opening and closing the hutch, Carefully extracting the wedding china, The special matching oblong gravy boat, the delicate coffee cups and saucers. The memory of us at the kitchen sink After the meal, aprons over fancy clothes, Hand washing the plates and bowls, Replacing the dishes in the cabinet, lovingly, carefully. The image Of you taking out the extra table leaf, polishing the wood, again and again, Even when the shine was waning And the scratches could not be repaired. My sister inherited the china, sprinkled With tiny painted flowers, rimmed In gold. She hesitated to use them, Citing the gold leaf, the handwashing. Use them now tell I her, use them every day Who cares if the gold wears off. Gilt is not the true value of things.
Author’s Note: It was a newsworthy week in many ways, causing me to reflect over and over on what is truly of value, what lasts. What is most important to you? Share in comments.
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A topic near and dear to my heart! Thank you for making me look at some things through a slightly different filter.
"Gilt us not the true value if things.".....
So true Suzanna. Your thoughts in words always bring me back to memories which, to me, are the true value.
Lovely, thank you.