Table Things

The cruet set is

Cut glass, tall, silver trimmed

And French. A gift.

I have no idea of its past.

It exists still,

Long treasured once, but by whom?

It is the ordinary things,

In casual daily use by all,

Which carry the pathos of recall.

One butter knife, bone handled,

Grooved and brown,

Speaks to me of 'a nice bit of ham for our tea,'

Of white bread, buttered thinly,

But out to each corner,

Either for elegance or frugality.

Make the most, we had rationing.

Another, round flat blade,

A plain wooden end to hold,

Is all hasty toast and breakfast rush,

Days out sandwiches

And late night suppers after pubs.

It's still complete

With its sixties stainless steel butter dish.

The last has a pale yellow handle, plastic,

And a criss cross on the knife.

Now, was that ours, or grandma's too?

My mother can't remember, and already,

I'm no longer sure,

But it has a Sunday look, untarnished,

From some cutlery set

That was probably kept for best,

Or maybe, Christmas guests.

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And my own ted must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds,

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.