Linens and china

Wednesday afternoon, late, my sister-in-law and I met at the rapidly vacant house to go through my mother's massive collection of table linens and equally massive collection of good china.

I arrived at the house before she did. I walked through the rooms, down the halls, touched the wall paper, flipped the lights on and off and marvelled at how the illumination is harsh in a room without furniture. Off. On. I was tempted to fall into the emptiness again, but I did that Friday night. And to be honest, although the temptation was there, I am just too tired to entertain expectation of emotions, to feel anything other than what I feel, even if - especially if - I'm feeling okay with it all at the very moment.

I pulled out all the linens, placed them on the long dining table, stacked the hand-embroidered tea towels in matching sets, by color, by holiday, by my Mother and by my Grandmother. I pulled boxes from the attic, opened the cabinets in the Butler's pantry.

Then my sister-in-law arrived, and in her hands were a couple bottles of champagne. In her arms was a big hug for me.

We popped a cork and decided to sit on the back patio for a spell before we began our task. And on that back patio we sat for the rest of the night. Chatting, laughing, dropping a few tears, telling and retelling stories, clinking our glasses. It's was a scene my family has played out on that porch for years. Sometimes there was an occasion that brought us together - Christmas, my brother's wedding, the largest lobsters we'd ever seen - and sometimes it would simply start with one person sitting out there, joined by another, and so on, friends would stop by and before we knew it, we were all sitting out there, relaxing, talking, enjoying each other and the evening.

The night was cool, the breeze was slight, the company familiar and good. The linens and china? They could wait.