My mom understood something about beautiful things long before I did. She loved her good dishes, but what I remember most is how much pleasure she got from actually using them. She liked seeing them on the table. I think setting them out was part of making a meal feel special to her—not necessarily because it was a holiday or there were guests coming, but because the dishes themselves brought her joy. They were beautiful to her, and instead of keeping that beauty hidden safely away, she wanted it where she could see it and enjoy it.
And we all knew how much those dishes meant to Mom. Because of that, we learned to be careful with them. We carried a plate with two hands. We didn't toss things into the sink or stack them carelessly. There was an understanding that these were special, not because we weren't allowed to touch them, but because someone we loved loved them. I don't remember being afraid of the dishes, but I do remember knowing that if one broke, Mom would be genuinely sad. So we took care. Looking back, I realize she was teaching us something bigger than how to handle a good plate.
Maybe that's the lesson I want to carry forward with Mom's green Frankoma dishes now. Using beautiful things doesn't mean treating them casually. In fact, it can teach us exactly the opposite. Miles can learn that some things deserve two hands and a little extra care—not because things are more important than people, but because objects can hold stories, memories, and connections to people we love. I hope he sees me smile when I bring out those green dishes, just as I remember my mom enjoying her good things. And perhaps someday, he'll handle one carefully because he'll know that they make Gia happy.
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