My kitchen shelves groan with a plethora of plates.  The plates which I don’t use occupy a shelf too high for my reach.  The bottom two shelves in that same cabinet hold the square, colorful plates which Jenny Rosen helped me acquire two years ago when I needed a tangible sign of change.  I’ve always liked square plates and I feel good when I slide my scrambled eggs onto one of them beside my little pieces of gluten-free toast.

A stack of old Melamine dishware stands next to the new plates.  Some survived my childhood home; others appeared in one of my care packages from my sister Joyce.  When I pour cereal or soup in these bowls, I think of being “Mary”, sitting in our breakfast room at a formica table for ten, boys on one side, girls on the other.  I hear my mother’s voice from the other room asking for someone to carry the bowls of steaming hot food.

High on the top shelf, memories of my mother crowd the bird’s nest which my son found a couple of decade’s ago.  Her jars and a nut grinder gather dust and mouse-droppings.  When I clean that shelf, I might have to throw it all away, the memories with the dustbunnies.  I’m avoiding that.  I glance upwards now and then, when I’m getting out a little bowl for my morning fruit.  Just having my mother’s old jars barely visible but enduring comforts me.

I have too many dishes but I’m not complaining.  Some day I will carry through with my announced intention to downsize.  Jenny will come and stand on the stepstool and roll her eyes at me, as she knocks down handfuls of nesting material that the mice have no doubt been enjoying.  We’ll box the dusty Italian dishes and give them to Goodwill.  The melamine will travel well, so I’ll keep those, with the square plates, and maybe the ancient nut grinder that I only use at Christmas.  The rest will go.  That’s as close as I can come to starting fresh, but when the time comes, I know that will be enough.

It’s the nineteenth day of the thirty-first month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.