A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Remember:
Me, seated on the floor, passing up
mugs from the cupboard my grandfather built

	(You always wanted to write his story one day;
	a memoir entitled ‘My Father’s Hands’ — 
	the very hands that built this, and your dining table,
	and the furniture in my room growing up.
	He told you he loved you, many times 
	across the decades, just not 
	in the language you wanted. You never did 
	write it down so I suppose most of it will be lost
	as most history is. Would you want me to write
	the snippets I still hold? Or leave
	the past where it lies, cleaned off the concrete
	with his blood? I suppose you’re both off to see a man 
	about a wigwam for a goose’s bridle, and maybe 
	you’re playing Danny Boy for him on the violin.)

and we laughed.  I think we’ve only used these twice,
I recalled, and I’ve been doing this since I was a kid, 
helping you clean the good crockery, saving it
for special occasions.
						I know, you replied, it seems silly now, 
materialistic.  What was I keeping them for anyway?
Can’t take ‘em with me when I’m gone.
I hold up the fine bone china with the horses — 
I’ve coveted this forever.
		Would you use it? you asked me.  Please, take it
and use it.

So I took it, and your Arzberg, and I married him — 
my own mistake — and moved into an apartment and repeated 
your mistakes.  I put the good cutlery, the good crockery
behind cupboard doors, 
safe,
for special occasions. You always wanted me to learn 
from your mistakes.  I suppose we both know 
I had to make some of them myself.  Life’s funny
that way.  But here we are, a graduation of sorts. 
I believed in love, but I always said I’d go straight for the gentleman,
straight for someone like my own father, a gentle soul.  
Neither of us saw this coming: my own variation on a theme.
I never thought I’d have an ex-husband, but I can see
the patterns in both our souls that left us open to manipulation.

Now, I’m stronger without him.  And I use the good cutlery
for breakfast cereal, and I make my morning coffee in that delicate cup,
and I serve everyday dinners on the fancy plates that were 
about the only good thing you took away from an abusive relationship
that lied to you about love and life.  And if my children 
(the only good things I took away from mine) happen to break them, 
what would it matter? They’re just things.  It’s not like I’ll take them with me one day, 
when I die.

And today, I bought the expensive champagne. You’d have balked 
at the cost, but then tasted the stars and admitted
I was right to buy it. So Dad and I will raise a glass — 
a good glass — to your memory,
and when it makes us tipsy, we’ll sing about it like you used to do.

I suppose I am still saving them all for special occasions.  I’ve just
finally learned they’re a daily occurrence.