The type of silverware you generally find polished and tucked in a velvet-lined box. The sort you inherit along with a story of its purchase… its travel through lives. The shiny baubles that generally appear at only Thanksgiving or Christmas… Easter, perhaps.
His reply? A matter-of-fact… Why not use them? Who are they going to be left to?
Having no children or heir apparent, He uses the good silver. My first thought was one of sadness… it felt like i swallowed a pebble. i wanted him to have someone… someone who would rub the decorative handles under their thumb… who would appreciate them… who would remember him each time they caught the light reflecting off a knife or spoon.
As i sit here today, though, eating a late lunch with my own flatware… the memory elicits a different emotion altogether. Countless people will remember him… when he shuffles off… i’ll remember him, for starters. Every time i eat a blood orange or smell spanakopita… each time i hear a certain song or visit my mecca… when i pick up a geode or pet a gray cat… i will remember him.
But the things are just things… and if nobody is enjoying them? What’s the point of having them? i think that there’s a lesson in this for all of us. We should enjoy what we have… these possessions do us no good locked in safety deposit boxes or safes. Two or three times a year? Fuck that…
i don’t own ‘good silver’ or ‘good china’ because i’m not that kind of girl. But i am guilty, more often than i’d like to admit, of denying myself very simple pleasures… pleasures that are within my grasp.
i was told that i am a bit of a hedonist… smile. Perhaps i should indulge that side of my personality a wee bit more… pull some things out of boxes, take the protective sleeves off things… even myself… and see what happens.
Everything is Never Quite Enough by Wasis Diop
The Windmills of Your Mind by Sting
Sinnerman by Nina Simone