The China Cabinet

On Sunday, I brought my grandparents' china cabinet into my home.  Memory, an unreliable record, tells me that the china cabinet has stood in the same spot in my grandparents' dining room for at least the last 20 years.  But now, as of Sunday, it stands stately upright in my own dining room.

In my grandmother's time, the china cabinet held precious trinkets, gifts from loved ones praising her as a woman, a wife, a mother, a friend.  As a child, I would stop in front of the cabinet and look inside it's glass at each item, snacking on an ice cream cup or some Ritz crackers, admiring her collection, assembled tributes to love.  But when she died in 1998, my mother packed those things away.  My uncles repainted the house, the only brief moment the cabinet was moved away from the wall.

In 1999, when my grandfather remarried, his new wife filled the china cabinet with new trinkets, wedding favors and figurines.  In 2008, my mother, my grandfather, and my grandfather's wife traveled to China to visit me.  We celebrated her birthday with a Chinese cake from a bakery around the corner, sheng ri kuai le in Chinese characters cheerfully written on a little decorative piece of cardstock displayed prominently atop the cake.  My grandfather's wife added that little birthday greeting to the trinkets in the china cabinet.  When I returned to the States the following year, I was pleasantly surprised to find it there.  I smiled every time I saw it.

But now, as of Sunday, it stands stately upright in my own dining room.  I find myself wandering into the dining room, pulled toward it.  I touch the wood panels.  I open it's glass door and smell its familiar smell.  I play with the handles on its drawers.  I look in my kitchen for things to fill it with, but I tell myself, "Later, maybe tomorrow, I'll start moving things into it."  And so, it sits empty, stately upright, old and worn, but dignified.  I wander in, touch its wood panels.

The china cabinet is in my house because my grandfather and his wife are dead.  The daughters, sisters, and nieces have come and packed away the trinkets that lived inside the china cabinet, and the little birthday greeting has disappeared.  The rest of the house, too, must be packed away.  When my mother asked me what I wanted, I asked for the china cabinet.  My uncles agreed that I should have it.  So on Sunday, I brought it into my home and stood it up in my dining room.  But I can't fill it.

The china cabinet is like a ghost in my house, a shadow of the past.  Though it smells like my grandparent's house, it has found itself a new home.  Stately and dignified, it confirms to me with every glance that my grandparents are dead.

"Later, maybe tomorrow, I'll start moving things into it."

My Uncle

I have a lot of uncles.  And I call them all tío, I call them all uncle.  "My uncle," I start stories, assuming you will know which uncle I mean.

My Tío Emiro is married to my Tía Darda and they went to Atlantic City for their honeymoon fifty years ago, before anyone else in my family even knew honeymooning in Atlantic City was thing.  My Tío Doro, whose name is really Tío Teodoro, became Tío Doro when my young, undiscerning ears failed to distinguish between the the sometimes tonal í and the always tonal e.  My Tío Ismael, who is sometimes Mr. O, likes to make chilli and is always pendiente about my car.  My Tío Pablo tricked me one time, challenging me to make interesting sculptures by taking giant bites out of my sandwich.

My uncle is brave.  My uncle is kind.  My uncle is patient and long-suffering.  My uncle is steady, faithful, and honest.  My uncle is wise.  My uncle is dignified.  My uncle is graceful and noble.  "My uncle," I will begin.  It'll be a good story, I promise.