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My mother Rose with my Dad's mother and father.
My mother Rose with my Dad's mother and father.
I've been noticing how my plates are getting yellow and blotchy underneath from use over the years. It reminds me of my grandparents and their plates when we used to go for Sunday lunch every second week. We would catch the bus to see them because we didn't own a car..
My grandparents' plates were old.
They were yellow; not just by glaze
but through years of warming in the range.
Crazed. They were crazed,
made them feel older than they really were.
And blotchy, too
from the untamed heat
under years of childhood bus trips
to Sunday roasts.
My dishwasher stands empty
with insufficient plates from one man's meals
to feed its purpose.
I hand wash the plates,
blue plates,
but as I turn to rinse
I see yellow of their age that carries through.
I hold that age is a blessing
an act of shared silences
and love
that carries on in plates
long after the bus trips have stopped.
Edited 7 October 2026WaimateTuesday 13th of August 2024
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