Royal Worcester

Note: This story may contain mature themes and adult language.
If you are offended by such material, you might want to turn back.

The day Sally and Bob move Bob's mother out of her house on Starlight Lane and into the nursing home on State Street, Sally wraps the Royal Worcester in newspaper and packs it into two gin boxes.

"Careful with the tureen top; be sure to double wrap the teacups," says Bob's mother, then leaves the kitchen to tell Bob how to fold sweaters into a suitcase.

Sally carries the second box towards the back seat of her Volvo and Tuesday night's dinner party. Her steps echo in the barren living room. Her left foot slides into a stray sheet of newspaper and keeps sliding as the paper shoots out across the hardwood floor. Her leg cushions the fall of the box, which breaks both bones clean through with a snap.

"Is the china all right?" asks Bob's mother.

Three months later, her cast propped up on a kitchen chair, Sally sits in a corner of the dining room watching Bob's family mourning their mother by eating Coq au Vin off the Royal Worcester. The gold rims of the teacups are wearing away, but the flowers on the dinner plates are as bright as if they were new.

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