MY MOTHER'S CHINA

 

My mother's china -- bone-white, heavy in young hands,
encircled with a pattern of sky-blue flowers
and filigree, tiny leaves pointing in all directions
at once -- emerged from the far reaches of the cupboards
only twice a year -- Thanksgiving, and Christmas.
It was a set acquired, piece by piece, each having its day,
by saving up a small fortune in S&H green stamps
from the local Red Owl -- the delicate teacups
and saucers, the weighted serving tray, dinner plates
and bread plates, a cream pitcher for coffee.
Even butter claimed its own home -- such extravagance!
Yet we could not have know -- how could we? --
what such an ordinary luxury might mean to our mother,
to at last have something simple and fine, something stately
among the brick and cinder block of the projects,
the mountain girl from Tennessee, denied even a doll
or summertime shoes, trying hard to forget one
lifetime while imaging another, brighter somehow,
which might or might not choose to emerge.
But twice a year, at least, we drank our milk from goblets
like royalty, poured our canned, grayish vegetables
and gelatinous cranberry sauce onto what we imagined
must have been the prettiest plates in town,
while that gravy boat, loaded with thick, brown cargo,
sat motionless among the white cloth of its waters,
dreaming already of the long voyage home,
its sturdy bow not to be seen again for months.

CHARLOTTE

 

Charlotte was well into her ninth decade,

with no plans for retirement, making,

slicing, and packing sandwiches

on the assembly line with the rest of us

poor souls -- perpetually bored teenagers,

dropouts, and functioning addicts trying to survive.

Her face was a wonder of lines intersecting

with lines, of worry and laughter,

one long and detailed story leading

imperceptibly into another; her skin, thin

as parchment, polished and shining

beneath the gray industrial light,

especially when she turned to smile.

Her beloved husband Frank had long since left

this life, while their children, and their children, had

grown and moved away, one to the east

and one far out west, remembering, most years,

to call at Christmas and her birthday.

"What would I do sitting at home alone?,"

she would ask to no one in particular,

answering herself with an exaggerated shrug.

Decades earlier, she had worked

at the ammunition plant not far from here,

alongside my aunt Anna Mae, counting

and packing machine gun shells for the war

six days a week, her hands perpetually

smelling of metal and oil for years.

This work was easier, much easier by far.

"Here I can eat what I make," she once quipped,

"and no one gets hurt, or killed -- just fed."