It's an archaic, arguably thankless task,
like housework,
that must be done over and over.

When my mother died
and we dismantled her Savannah apartment,
my sister and I split up some of the silver and
sold some. She didn't want much.  
"It's too high maintenance.
Who has time to polish things? And if you
store it, what's the point?"

At the sink polishing, I feel close
to my mother, who loved her silver
with passion — as she did jewelry, shoes,
clothes, furniture, and paintings.

She cherished her mother's silver platter,
the tea set, the monogrammed sugar bowl
and creamer from Dad's grandparents,
the pitchers, the bowls, the plates,
the heavy silver flatware for twelve,
a wedding present to my grandparents.
Even by Southern standards, she had a lot of silver.

I stand at my sink in Maine polishing the silver cup
my elegant grandfather won for golf in 1935,
the pierced silver dish I remember from my
grandmother's dinner table. The heavy
silver candlesticks, a little battered,
have been in our family for a hundred years.

One of the few things I could do for Mom
when I visited during her last lonely year
without Dad was to polish some silver. It was
easy to do and made her world a little more right.

I rinse with hot water and dry with a soft cloth.
Everything gleams.  I set the cup and candlesticks
on my mantel, where they look just right.

From Be There or Be Square (Moon Pie Press, 2018).
Used here with permission.