I belong on a grand table, primly and precisely placed near a bone china
gravy boat, translucent and glowing. In a room, high of ceiling, deep
of velvet; curtains swooping their soft hush as sentinels of the dining
room. I belong in a polished mahogany canteen, burnished highly,
tucked in deep red velvet stalls, not chucked in a basket with all
manner of twisted cutlery, most darkened with age, tarnished reputations
rising from their rounded bowls. My delicate curves have graced the
fine table of the same family for generations, in rooms full of soft
candlelight, tinkling crystal and refined conversation. Known always as
the Runcible Spoon, I belong in the slender hands of demure ladies,
resting on starched linen laid with Limoges and Waterford. I am smooth
and symmetrical, a hint of decoration - filigreed lace made of
moonlight.
The copyright of this post belongs to Lynn Hillston
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