loved to sip white wine from. Dad bought them
at an auction along with a Chinese bar made
of polished cherry wood. I dusted it carefully,
my fingers up over the steps of a bridge,
blossoms carved along tree branches edging
either side of a brook. Days were slower then,
Now I’d like to forget dust,
to let the vacuuming and dishes go. I’d rather
sip wine from a crystal goblet, sitting in the
sun on the back deck. How different you
and I were. Do you remember expecting
my Schwinn down steep roads, stopping
to shoot with my Kodak, picking black-eyed
Susans dotting the river hillside . It’s been
twelve years since the divorce and I packed
away the crystal. You were long buried by
then or I would have stored the box at your
place instead of in my friend’s basement.
Through the years I’d recall drinking from
one of the cut-glass goblets and couldn’t
remember were the set had gone. Like you,
gone with the wind perhaps. Where are you
dusting crystal these days?
as you age. The good wine is more expensive,
but you need less. None of my friends have
matching crystal sets. You so loved being proper.
“So British,”your long lost husband always said.