The Porcelain Swan

On a stunning rod iron table in our living room sits a porcelain swan. The only other adornments on this table are two tiny copper candlesticks. The swan was a gift many years ago from an elderly friend. I have had numerous offers over the years from people to purchase the swan. All have been turned down.

The swan is no longer in pristine condition, which only adds to it beauty. At the base the swan is laced with green and off white as the feathers bloom it become crimson with off white interwoven throughout. The tips of the wings are black and a small piece of one of the feathers is missing from a moving accident. The elegant neck has a slight line were it was once damaged.

We have a few valuable pieces in our collection we also have many pieces with more family heritage, but none symbolizes what the swan does. It is a visible memory of the owner who passed it on to me. Mary like the swan was in far from pristine condition when she became a part of my life.

She was in her eighty something year of life, I was a very young woman at the time our paths crossed. She was finishing her life as I was beginning mine. Mary had never wed she had spent her life in the service of others. I would begin my married life shortly after we met. I was preparing for a life similar in service to others but different in that I would be blessed with the continuation of relationships from those I serviced long after my care was no longer needed.

I was not Mary's caregiver and she was not mine we were merely chatting friends. The majority of our chats were about Mary's life in the before time.

She always had a ready cup of tea and a happy disposition to offer even when I had an awful day. I tried to give her the same. She had been born in the first part of the last century the youngest of nine children of her rural family. Her siblings moved away as she was growing up until she was the only member of her family left to take care of her aging parents. She did the task uncomplaining, and never married because of her first service to others. When both of her parents were gone she was in her middle thirties and she knew that her life would be as a nurse. Shortly after obtaining her nursing ambition the war began and she answered the call.

She was in the service for the duration of World War II and she had vivid recollections of her ports of call, all the places she had seen. She did not talk of the devastation or human suffering that undoubtedly was a part of her time while in the service of her country. She talked of the beautiful countries and the lovely people she met. She talked about the soldiers of their pride in service.

I saw the English countryside through Mary's eyes. The coast of France and Ireland were brought to life in her words. Many of her recollections were places that had disappeared by the time she was sharing her tales with me. But I could still see them because they were a part of our earth in Mary's memory.

Mary talked of an aged gentleman who had given her a ride on his bicycle from one tiny village to another. She had been working long hours and had tired swollen feet and had to walk to her quarters in the next village. He asked her in halting English if she would like a ride on his handlebars. He had incredible white hair and a booming laugh. She didn't even know his name. When he left her at her doorstep he asked Mary to remember him always. Which she did, then she passed his memory on to me and I have passed it on to others, a kindness never forgotten through time.

We spent many pleasant hours together. She talked of her life after the war in the missionary field and her adventures traveling through rural America. How she had fallen in love in her later years but was unable to continue the relationship because of objections from his family. She had no regrets though, she relished the experience. Mary's life was filled to brimming and she shared some of it with me in our chatting time.

Mary's health and my own personal obligations brought an end to our time together. The last time I saw her was a few days before Christmas, she gave me the gift of the swan and asked me to keep it as a memory of our conversations, which I have.

Some day in the future yet to be I will do the same to a person perhaps yet unknown or to someone unexpected. I will tell of Mary and the white haired gentleman and try to give the gift I was given through words to another soul. With the swan as a visible memory catcher for the next person to recall lives already lived, but not forgotten.

Roxanna