Seven Teapots
I opened the door that morning to a knock,
And four women, holding seven teapots.
I had to laugh, surprise and then understanding hitting me at once.
I welcomed them in and cleared a place on the kitchen counter.
There they sat. Seven teapots, quirky and colourful.
Every shape and size. Some plain. Some themed.
One shaped like a cottage. Another polka-dot and round.
I thought to myself
“we are so British.”
Because what else? One this of all days.
What else would we need to get us through?
They wouldn’t be needed yet. Not for hours.
Not until later when the ceremony was done
and the tears were shed.
When the last goodbyes were said and we could retreat to the house renewed.
Ready to swap stories and memories and look back with smiles.
Mugs warm in our hands.
I don’t remember what I wore.
I don’t remember who spoke.
Who couldn’t speak.
I don’t remember what hymns were sung.
Or what parts of your life were plucked from the highlight reel.
Listed off to those who knew you best as a pale reflection of all you were.
I don’t remember most of that day.
But I will always remember you.
And I will always remember opening that door,
To those seven teapots.
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