"The Wedding Gift"

 

I pass it daily, a tea set for six.

My father's parents' gift to them

on their wedding day.

I never met my grandparents.

My only remembrance is an old photo

from their only trip to this country.

They traveled by ship accompanied by

a wooden crate of delicate china.

A setting for six; tea cups and saucers,

dessert plates, sugar and creamer,

a platter, and a graceful tea and coffee server.

 

The pieces sit in an old pine breakfront

arranged on three shelves.

An antique pine piece with a backdrop

of faded mustard yellow

serves as a shelter from inquiring visitors.

They are magnificent in their appearance -

dresden blue, gold trim and highlighted white

on the graceful necks of the beverage servers.

 

A city lost to the allies, bombed to nothingness.

A lost city, a lost heritage and a dog-eared photo

of two people standing in the rock garden

of my childhood home.  Stout and proud.

Elegant in their carriage, no jacket -

his only concession to informality.

A starched shirt and pocket watch hanging

from his waist band. She, a below the knees dress,

laced up high-top shoes and a hat in her hand.

 

The wooden crate shipped as cargo safe-guards

the contents.  Each piece individually wrapped

and carefully placed in wood shavings that

resembled shredded wheat.  Twenty three pieces

sit untouched and never used, only the ritual

of washing them yearly from the layered dust

that filters on them with the passing time.

Gifts from a station master and his wife,

decendents of Daniel, Konsul of Strassbourg, 1665.

 

I slowly replace each piece into its predetermined

place with the reminder that I should look for my

father's old passport.  Maybe them I'll find the names

of my paternal heritage - a man and his wife proudly

standing behind the irises and peonies.

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