Nom de Plume

Elegy to a Great Aunt

She asked what we wanted, gesturing from the table
where sunlight slanted into oblong squares,
and though it seemed wrong, I picked the crystal—
because her ice water glints like diamonds
and she’s always used the sterling and good china,
not knowing dishwashers cloud.

My mother chooses the watercolor over the fireplace,
the other niece the teak cabinet, delicate
as lapsang souchong in Wedgewood.
Other items chip and split in the rinse cycle:
silver spots, gold leaf fades. My own hairline crack
is barely visible under detergent words,
but months pass.

Regret is inevitable, I think. It lurks
in the conciliation of a cardboard box,
rustles in styrofoam peanuts, yellowed papers.
And it sits there gleaming in my cupboard—
finer than anything else I own.