Dear Mother,

To My Dear Mother

Today I unwrap the crystal glasses you once 

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, 

walking my fingers up over the steps of a bridge,

blossoms carved along tree branches edging

either side of a brook. Days were slower then,

you chatting with friends on the telephone

while I dusted, vacuumed, did my daily

summer chores Dad paid me two dollars 

a week to do. 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

proper behavior from me? I loved riding

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?  Time grows shorter 

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.