zird is the word (lizardek) wrote,
zird is the word
lizardek

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HAND-ME-DOWNS

My father's: a lion-headed meerschaum pipe, tinged a warm golden brown, nestled in the velvet lining of a worn black leather pipe-shaped case.

His father's: a photo of himself as a small child in a white smock sitting astride a tall black ostrich, reins in hand, one small foot dangling.

His mother's: a snub-footed footstool, rounded in beige plush, a needlepoint bouquet in muted colors centered for resting feet.

Her mother's: a large tarnished silver brooch, its circled edge framing a standing waterbird with one wing raised, a smaller bird crouching beneath.

My mother's: a doll-sized china teapot, teacup and saucer, sky blue with a flowing gray and white smiling oriental dragon embossed on each piece, sent to her as a teenager by a Japanese penpal.

Her father's: a memory of waltzing around the living room with him to Lawrence Welk, my small feet pressed against the tops of his shoes.

Her mother's: a small round cut-glass bowl filled with stone-bashed water-smoothed sherbet-ice-colored sea glass, gentle gems found winking in the sand along her beachfront.

Anders': a child's flared-lip silver mug engraved with his name, embellished with the little flying figure of Nils Holgersson on his goose and a short matching spoon with a flock of flying geese on the handle.

Mine: a cherry-wood framed watercolor painting of my cat Tish, curled and sleeping, dated the year I turned 18.
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