When my mom’s dad passed away, at 100 years old, my mom and her siblings went to his apartment to take stock of what he had and see if any of the grandchildren would want anything. She sent us files organized by room and type of item (silver, glass, artwork, furniture, etc.) and a spreadsheet to indicate our interest. I perused the photos. There was a wooden ashtray that I liked, some oblong drink glasses, glass bowls, and a glass box that I’d always seen on my grandmother’s dresser.
“That’s all?” I remember my mom asking.
“That’s it.” I didn’t need or want anything big.
Fast forward to July. I was in New York for a few weeks before heading back to Miami, where I’d be staying at my boss’s place in Key Biscayne while I continued my apartment search.
My mom and sister and I had gone to the jeweler’s on a humid day to figure out what we wanted to do with the sapphires from a bracelet they’d found of my grandmother’s. I wanted to make a necklace and my sister decided on a bracelet. My mom had also brought along a bunch of other things to see if she could repurpose them or if they had any value. Among them were some deep silver plate flatware with intricate designs on the handles.
“Are they worth anything? Can I sell them?” My mom asked the jeweler.
“Well, we could buy them by the weight,” the jeweler explained. “They may be worth more if they’re a complete set. But you know, then you have to do the work of photographing and selling them.”
“I wish one of you just wanted them,” my mom said, looking at me and Tillie. “There are two full sets!”
“Oh, nobody wants anything old anymore,” the jeweler remarked.
Later that week, I went to my friends, Izzy and Jacob’s, for dinner before Greg’s reunion show. My anxiety was high, thinking about seeing all my college friends for the first time in many years. Worried about what they’d think when I shared the news of my breakup. If they’d judge me a failure, even though I knew that leaving my marriage was one of the bravest things I had ever done.
Izzy and Jacob’s apartment is the same one they’ve lived in since we graduated, but has morphed throughout the years as they’ve seen a roommate come and go. Now, it was filled with old furniture Izzy inherited from her grandmother: a four poster bed; a strange, velvet upright hallway bench, serving as their couch; a coatrack; a standing lamp; silver flatware and goblets (goblets!) for our water and wine.
As they served me dinner (honey teriyaki salmon) and poured my water from a silver urn, I thought back to the silverware in my parents’ house, sitting in its wooden box.
The next day, my last before I left, I told my mom I’d take it.
“Why not?”
“Oh, good!” She exclaimed. “You can put it in the dishwasher too, just not with regular silverware.”
In August, once I’d moved into my new place, after a week of using one fork, one spoon, one knife, repeatedly, a box arrived from my mom that we’d packed a few weeks prior: 3 oblong glasses (the 4th had broken in transit); 6 glass bowls; the wooden ashtray; the glass box; and the silverware, all nestled tightly in bubble wrap.
“It just needs some polishing,” my mom told me. She sent me a photo of what I should buy: Twinkle Silver Polish. And so I polished it all one day, marveling as the tarnish magically disappeared and the silverware, literally, twinkled.
This Sunday, I finally had the time to polish it again. It had been on my to-do list since the February break. As my friend Mariah called me to catch up, I put on the rubber gloves and got started. We hung up when she had to head to Easter lunch with her family, and I continued on my own. My left hand started to cramp, but I kept going.
Finally, all polished, rinsed, and washed, I laid them out in neat interlocking rows on a drying mat. I washed my hands and hung the gloves, then waited for them to dry so I could put them back in their drawer.
Writing With Abandon 
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