We’ve been cleaning out my mother’s house, dispersing the collections of a lifetime to the four corners of our community. A few things have been sold to raise funds for a new, narrow twin bed for my father, (who has decided it is time to downsize), a few have gone to the Coach’s home and to my own, but the lion’s share has gone to the local donation location. We have enough. And in the midst of the Covid pandemic, there are many who do not.
Before lying down with a migraine earlier, I unpacked my mother’s China today and made room for it in my kitchen.
We ate from those dishes every week for formal Sunday dinners when I was a child. After dinner the adults would linger over coffee and visit together. I disliked the scent of coffee and the conversation above my comprehension, but the china pattern was pretty.
It appears Mother wisely invested in two extra copies of the pieces that everyone tends to break, because while unwrapping eight complete place settings, I unwrapped ten teacups and saucers.
This evening, doing a bit better, I thought a little caffeine might be helpful and made myself a cup of tea. I have a luxury black tea called Paris, with a kiss of vanilla and a whispered hint of bergamot. My lifelong friend, a beautiful, quiet, loving woman, who happens to be named Karen, kindly sent me a tin of Paris tea for my birthday. It has been months since I last tasted any. To the cup I add honey, as I often do, but this time, for the first time, (hoping I wouldn’t ruin it), I gambled, adding a little cream as well. It tastes like a dessert.:)
I’ve been sitting on the porch, soaking sunlight into my bones as the sun slowly falls, savoring a cup of tea from my mother’s teacup for the first time in my life.
A chipmunk darts across the bottom step before me. As the sun dips below the horizon and the last rays gild my neighbor’s gable, there is an explosion of twittering as the neighborhood birds burst into their evensong.
A young rabbit gallops around the corner of the house and disappears into the bushes. Soon a squirrel sits down on the brick path, and brings a fallen black walnut drupe to her lips. I am surprised to see she spends several minutes there, working on her supper. I look at the neighbor’s gable roof, still shining, but dimming now, and glance back to see the squirrel has slipped away.
The birds fall quiet, and I hear the cricket song rise. My husband calls me to dinner and I go in.
Maximum Grace 