After dinner, Mother pulled kitchen chairs
to the sink so one sister could wash dishes
and the other rinse and dry.
When it was my turn to dry I wrapped
one arm around and pulled the serving bowls
into my belly, like clutching a resistant cat.
I ran dishtowels around at least three times,
the dishes still wet.
Dinnerware was slippery in our tiny hands.
It’s not that we never dropped a fork
or a plate, but melamine was durable,
and cheap. It was for family use.
After we all moved out,
Mother replaced it
with mass-produced pottery,
the melamine stored downstairs
in a cupboard next to cups
with the face of Saint Nicholas.
