Red Pitcher

Do you remember
a certain red pitcher
we used to have?
The one with the broad lip
a slender handle covered with wicker
its hourglass silhouette tapering to
a broad, sturdy base.
And how it sat on the uppermost shelf
of the kitchen cabinet
a splash of color against
the Tupperware?
It kept us safe
holding back the avalanche
of used margarine tubs and
lettuce crispers and the cracked
Snoopy glasses from MacDonald's you swore
would be valuable some day.

So pretty,
so comforting.
Never used.

No, wait.
When I was little, before you were born
I had measles
the bedroom shades were drawn low
towels stuffed around the edges to
keep stray beams of sun from blinding me
and the only lamp allowed
sat away from my bed, unreachable
and covered by a scarlet bandanna.
Our mother brought the pitcher to my bedside
filled with ice she crushed in a mixing bowl
with a potato masher.
And I remember how the ice melted
through that feverish night,
how dew collected and raced down
the pitcher's side
until at last the drops quivered and disappeared underneath
leaving a puckered ring on the old street map
she used to protect the table.

I wanted that red pitcher
for my own someday.
I would have fought you for it.

Have you looked at the uppermost shelf
of the kitchen cabinet lately?
The pitcher still sits there.
Its enamel is chipped
the crayon-like red dull
from spots of grease.
The wicker-covered handle
has shrunken and yellowed with time,
revealing the coarse metal it meant to hide.
I'm afraid to take it down
cold and gritty in my hands
and look inside
to see the whorls of rust
licking away from the inside.

I think it's too late
but I wish together we could take the pitcher
and share one glass of lemonade
crusty with sugar and chilled
with memories.

--Vance Briceland

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