Shine

On the receiving end of my mama’s latest house- keeping purge, she foists a squat silver candlestick into my hands. “Here. You must take this. See the teeth marks? They’re yours.” She gives me both my baby self and a relic rare luxury of her otherwise materially impoverished early marriage. Perhaps she’s offering an early annoyance turned amusement. An archeological find, vintage Great Aunt Olive. This is no treasure. But since she cannot toss it, it’s for me to decide. Tarnished totem, not much to look at, not much use. Wish I could remember the pleasure of the chew. Somewhere in this house I’ll find a 30-year old jar of polish, so rarely used, it may need to be pried open with a wrench. “Make it shine, she says. Find the right candle. It’ll inspire a poem.”