A Silver Teapot

When I was about ten years old, my stepfather brought my mother a dozen red roses. It was the first act of romance I’d ever witnessed. 

She put them in a large silver teapot we kept in the pantry – a fancy-ish piece that seemed out of place beside our white Corelle dishes, the kind with little orange flowers circling the rim.

My mother’s second time around with marriage was much calmer than the first. My stepfather brought a sense of peace to our house. He made her laugh. He brought her flowers often, giving her a reason to put the silver teapot on the table. They’d sit outside on hot summer nights, eating peach-flavored ice cream on the front lawn.

In the morning before school, I’d see the empty bowls in the sink. One always had small pieces of peach in the bottom. He didn’t like the texture.

The arrangement was good, if you overlooked the fact that he – like my own father – left small children trailing in his wake.

Marriage is a most curious thing, isn’t it? We meet, we fall in love, we agree to live together for the rest of our lives. To eat the same food and sleep side-by-side in the same bed. To raise children, change diapers, make appointments, pay taxes, clean the garage.

Entire books have been written about the union between two people. Country songs. Poetry.

I’ve witnessed a total of four, three of which disintegrated before my eyes. What is the glue that binds the successful ones?

All I can say is, those rich velvet petals left their impression. When I stood dressed in white so many years later, that was the expectation I carried with me to the altar. A good marriage required romance, no matter what went on once the ice cream melted. No matter the mental health issues, the anxiety, the paranoia. No matter all they stole from her. My mother.

Yet, as is often the way these things go, I didn’t choose a husband who is inclined toward grand gestures.

I married a man who stayed.

My husband Joe stayed through the sleepless nights of newborns, the chaos of toddlers, the worry of autism, and mornings at the bus stop when it rained.

Perhaps this is enough.

Even more, perhaps this is good.

Nothing is real until I tell it to him.

I have no idea where the teapot is now, or the man who filled it each week, for that matter. At some point he turned and walked out the door, leaving our small family to contract once more.

My mother passed unexpectedly away last summer. When our childhood house sold, I was tempted to ask my brother to look for it, but something held me back. Even if he could find it, I had trouble imagining how it might fit into my own home. It always belonged to her. 

Sometimes, a memory is all you can keep.

As I turn nostalgia over in my mind, I remember when he handed her the flowers as they stood together in the kitchen. I picture the blue wallpaper she hung herself, the cup of coffee on the counter, her unexpected smile.

In my mind, she is briefly young again. 

She is briefly whole.

Joe holding our youngest son.