Sunday, April 2, 2017

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.

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