glasses

Last night we drank wine from my great grandmother's crystal goblets, paper thin and etched with vines and leaves.

Mom ignored these heirlooms, piling the loot of three generations against the back wall of the garage like chests of gold in Ali Baba's cave. The upstairs cabinets she stocked with mis-matched cups and glasses from thrift stores, and gracelessly modern plates and bowls in blank white ceramic.

As a particularly insightful therapist once told me, you can't deny the tragedies of your past without also denying the treasures. Mom packed it all away together, boxes taped shut and doors locked behind them.

I've rescued some wonderful, impractical pieces from the vault.
Gilded teapots, purple leaded glass vases, a stack of monogrammed highball glasses, a box full of mantle clocks. A pristine movie projector from the dawn of cinema.

I've also given away truckloads of chipped, broken and irrelevant junk.

Successfully opening the door to the past demands an absolutely unsentimental appraisal of reality. If you can't separate the wheat from the chaff there's a real danger of suffocation.