14 My teacup collection does not exist because I do not trust the moving van to keep each cup intact rather than rattling them to china dust; but I persist, daydreaming of an anchored place, an ivy-clothed cottage, trees dripping with wisteria, and a garden of lavender, lemon balm, mint, and time—to dry herbs and drape along walls to press peace like flower petals, things going to plan, without fractures or shatters or falls. I’ll have high wooden shelves, cups all arranged And invite neighbors for lemon-lavender pie and peach tea, let each guest, eyes rising to storied cups, choose from my set: the first of my collection, a Japanese red porcelain from Salado a gift from a bygone friend, and a German cobalt and gold from my sister. Their fingers trace over a Royal Sealy scalloped aqua lustre from my mother, but I don’t flinch as its feet tap on the saucer— I own dozens and shall earn dozens more and ceramic is but a flicker in an inch of existence, porcelain faces wrinkle, china walls fall, tables tip, so laugh lines and cracked cups won’t worry me.
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