They sat on a high shelf just out of reach
of my small clumsy hands.
Eight purple glasses and matching pitcher
shaped like bunched grapes.
The glasses were never used;
Mom valued them beyond their worth.

As an adult on a visit to my mother,
she brought out the cherished goblets. She served
iced tea and asked me to
claim what I wanted of hers
(not wanting cherished goods being sold
in some local garage sale).

I should have read between those lines.
I didn’t.

Today, in a vintage store window,
I see one lone grape glass.
I remember my mom’s valued set
purple and bubbly like a bunch of grapes,
now forever out of reach
of my big clumsy hands.


This poem first appeared in the Chiron Review (Summer 2016).
Used here with permission.