going through my mother’s kitchen cabinets, I am astounded by the collection of things, various vessels, plates, platters, some I have seen, some seem like they are on loan from museums of era, glassware that screams 70s disco, ornate sterling silver plates that seem fit for a castle service in england, every matter of serving platter and gravy train saucer container, some glassware is clearly 80s, some screams post modern, others are timeless classics, others covered in dust as if stored in the attic, tacky freeware from tropical destination locations, hand made donations from school projects, mostly bad ceramics, even the firing is showing some cracks, all with a maker’s mark on them, mine or my brother’s, from our childhood exploits, a time where you don’t see your father and mother as people going through life, they’re the guides at that time, the law, the rules, not real people until you learn that is the real truth when you are later with age, every shelf has something else, blenders that look like a 60s caddy, an ice caddy that could have been from the copa back in the day, I’m tempted to flip it over and play it like a bongo, that special electric knife set for special occasions, the big ones for carving like thanksgiving, I can hear the specific song of that thing, the rhythmic stop and start, almost like a chainsaw indoors that activates your appetite, for carving is the last wait before serving, other plates speak country store, some are reminders of other holidays and gatherings, when the house was packed with relatives, casserole dishes laid out for buffet on temporary fold up tables, loud mostly meaningless conversation, children weaving in and out, there is salad dressing containers when you never made your own, an original thermos, iconic cup still secure on top, a fondue set, a fondue set ? that someone else bought, cocktail forks, nutcrackers, can openers, all manner of spoon from baby size to cartoon huge, tongs, a complete world of their own, all the same purpose but so many forms, an egg timer, and egg slicer, a mandolin, sounds instrumental but isn’t, a whisker, a masher, a smasher, a tenderizing mallet, all sounds violent but isn’t, all manner of knife, some have teeth, some not, some on both sides, some on top, all have had a role current or past but here they remain as a testament…

There are many way we count time, clocks, watches, wall calendars, all those now carried even closer on our phones, but what else is there when we look closer enough, books, bookshelves, baubles, random art, gifts that have no use except the important use of reminding those who gave us them, photos, clothes in closets, and so much more.

I see a whole life here, a story, laid out in dishes…

notes… freeform tonight one shot write, looking around my folks home, poking around, they are older now, elderly but that seems like an insult, especially since I feel like I will be there in their place in no time, even though that is decades out on the horizon, a horizon that ever approaches, just the weird little things of life have been catching my eye… this is one of those.  And thanks to all for the looks, likes, and other such things, if I can entertain or enlighten one person my job is done (hey, a thousand or so wouldn’t be bad either, eh)