“The Rosenthal China,”
my mother would say with reverence
about the dishes you reserved for holidays.
Why is this night different from other nights?
On this night we eat from grandma’s Rosenthal—
the plates bordered with pink roses and gold filagree,
the plates bordered with pink roses and gold filagree,
graceful bowls where your matzo balls, delectably
light, float with parsley and slivers of carrot
in gleaming broth (you used shmaltz).
Formal china for the formal,
delicious, joyless meal.
Grandma Dora,
your brisket was so tender,
half a century later I can still savor it
on my tongue. And your pride in the food,
the beautifully set table, I felt that.
Yet whatever pain you carried
came to the table, too. And the weight
of doing this ritual because we were bound to,
not out of celebration or cherished memories,
surely not as a link to the god of our
superstitious ancestors.
Your legacy to me, Dora, along with
a third of the Rosenthal, most of it long broken.
On a high shelf, I find what remains: four saucers
for teacups that were too delicate to survive,
one last scallop-edged soup bowl. I reach,
set it on the counter.
The bowl
cracks
cleanly
a sea parting
to freedom.
