Grandmother’s China

There is, when the boxes are all unpacked, 

a wineglass near the sink; 

it has not held a drop of wine in forty years. 

How did this crystal remnant 

of a grandmother's table 

surface on my counter, separated from its sisters? 

We are the repository 

for the china, the silver, the crystal 

of our family's long-ago brides: 

pristine and sparkling with hope and plans 

for afternoon teas and holiday suppers 

for parties with friends 

and confidential conversations 

at kitchen sinks 

while dishes were washed and dried and 

carefully put away, 

lovingly polished and nestled in flannel-lined boxes. 

Brides no longer dream  

of crystal winking in candlelight 

or silver forks chiming on porcelain. 

Today is stainless and paper and plastic, and 

the occasional sturdy dish   

slammed into dishwashers, with 

buttons jammed for normal wash 

and sani-rinse. 

No one “does” the dishes anymore; 

dishwashers aren't known for conversation. 

And meanwhile,  

ranks of lonely goblets, 

stacks of neglected china,    

shelves of tarnishing silver, 

the linen napkins, the embroidered tablecloths 

languish in their dusty wrappings,  

awaiting the inevitable estate sale, 

longing for the light of day. 

Remembering.