It begins to become unused and is only kept around for sentimental value, seldom brought out for show except on rare occasions during a moment of aching nostalgia. Then it is held with love and gentleness as it is fondled and turned about by someone who misses a time long ago, no longer possible. Till then, it sits high above the rest of the other ware, separated from the oft-used utilitarian dishes and instead, left alone because it no longer has the solidity to hold itself together. It is considered weak and quaint and therefore abandoned in the daily chores of living.
Someday when I have space, when I have the right things aligned I will have two sets of dishes. One set will be perfect and exquisitely beautiful, so that no one will ever want to use them, except on rare special elaborate functions. The other set, will be a hodge-podge of sad neglected old dishes that no longer were wanted by anyone else and sat lonely on shelves to collect skin and time. These dishes will be used until the cracks widen, chips of plate will fall off into my food so I have to stop and look at what I'm eating more carefully. The color will fade and require me to look deeper into them when someone asks me what shade they are. I will have forgotten the name of who made them and make up a name to fit the smudged remnants of writing on the back, creating fantastic tales of the dishes journey.
I will drink from mason jars and old cans, wiping my mouth with old shirts. I will then clean the dishes with soft cotton socks that we wore as children, so they know what it's like to be tended to again.
And when they fall apart, into the sea of dishwater I will take those new dishes off the walls from display, and start all over so that someday my glorious new trinkets will become old again and remind someone else that everything always has a place, no matter how worn and jagged it becomes.
©4/8/13DanyaMosgofian
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