If Teapots Could Talk

On a wild fluke I pulled out the collection, the family, generational collection of teapots. Wiped them off and set them to display. Which one came from which grandmother via mom or dad? The one from my in-laws and the ones I bought and all others that found their way to me.

They’re just teapots.

Mom has her tea super weak, dip and done. But Nanny was an all-day soaker. I don’t remember the morning teabag being tossed before the afternoon ones were added.

I remember walking back into my Nanny’s home and stating “I’ll put the kettle on” or was it “I’ll make the tea,” I forget. Pa had just died hours ago and we were returning from the hospital, empty. It was a natural, needed, routine to make tea.

How many moments have these teapots lived? How much laughter? How many tears? How much advice and worries. Of making up.

They’re just teapots, right?

So, why do they feel like they contain my family’s collective souls?

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