It is one of my children's favorite things to do each year, the polishing of the silver for the Thanksgiving table. Not that we have so much, but the silver we do have belonged to their grandmother, who died at the young age of 53, a year and a half before I met the man who was to become my husband on a blind date in New York City a week before Thanksgiving 19 years ago.
And so, each year when we polish the silver, I tell them that if they look into the reflections on the handles of the forks and knives and spoons, they can see all the Thanksgivings in the past that have ever been celebrated with these cherished items.
If they are very quiet, they can hear the clinking of glasses during toasts to loved ones no longer here, around tables far away.
And if they really, truly listen, they can hear distant laughter, and perhaps a secret or two.
Before long, they start to see themselves in those reflections, when they, too, joined the family circle and added their own laughter and toasts and secrets to the legacy. And the cold, hard silver warms in their hands. And shines.
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1 comments:
No wonder you are a writer, Pattie, you have a gift with words.
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