Magpie #53

Photograph © Tess Kincaid

The image above was offered as a writing prompt by Magpie Tales.
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MEMORIES OF A SALT CELLAR

We were a beautiful pair, Pepper and I. 

I still recall the day that Lucy, at her bridal shower,

 tore the wrappings from our box.

How we sparkled when she held us to the sunlight. 

 "Oh! Joe and I will love and care for these forever," she said.

The glass-front china cabinet in the dining room, 

second shelf, up front, under a light, was where she kept us

except on Sundays, or when company came for dinner.

On those occasions, she would  put us on the table

for her guests to admire.

"Are these Waterford? Beautiful.

 I love how they catch the light."

Then the children began to sit at table,

and we learned to dread Sunday dinners.

Knocks and spills became the order of the day.

I can't begin to count the number of times

we left trails on the linen cloth,

or were unceremoniously tossed across the table

to small, impatient, waiting hands.

All Joe said was "Boys will be boys!"

Lucy sighed.

She finally stopped urging them to be careful with us

until one sad day, my partner's shattered remains lay on the floor,

a casualty of an all too hasty "pass the pepper."

I now sit on the top shelf of the china cabinet,

pushed to the back, out of sight.

Alone, and in the dark.

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