Grandma couldn’t remember how many times she’d served mashed potatoes in this bowl. She sat the steaming bowl on the square oak table covered with a old tablecloth. It had a couple of holes and a few stains that she couldn’t get out, but it all just reminded her of the many people who ate around her table.
There was always room around her table. Whether two showed up for Sunday dinner or twelve, she always had plenty of food. She adjusted her apron around her ample waist, the old apron that was her most valuable tool. She reached in the pocket feeling the old crochet potholder that she’d crocheted as a young bride.
Taking it out of her pocket to reach in the oven to pull out a pan of rolls. Her brood always enjoyed the rolls. She was so proud of her son who worked so hard.
The family always crowded around, passing the bowls. It is a wonder her bowls survived all these years. She was a silly old fool for saving almost everything. That’s why the old wood cook stove sat in the corner of the kitchen, no longer in use, but she couldn’t part with this reminder of her younger days.
It was hard to part with the past sometimes and the people that she missed. Hanging on to her possessions was just her way of hanging on to memories.
She sat the heavy platter with the roast down in the center of the table with a thump. What was that, a knock on the door?
I stood in the flea market holding this bowl. Something about it just grabbed my heart. I couldn’t help but wonder how many times some Grandma had served mashed potatoes in this bowl. My mind started wandering about the woman who’d lovingly used it. The wear on the bowl was evident, but you could just feel the love.