Silence had descended on the house this Easter Monday morning. All I can hear is the huffy breathing of Hannah cat. My nest has emptied once again and a niggle of melancholy is setting in. Order has been restored, pillows fluffed and little bits of pastel tin foil from chocolate eggs removed from the coffee table.
A pretty silver cup, filled with hyacinth from the garden sits on my mantle. This little cup has a certain power over me. Sometimes it's sentimentality brings tears to my eyes. It belonged to my Grandad, engraved with his initials and birth date. It remained paired with one other - my Granny's christening cup - for over 60 years, and sat on their mantle, always filled with little blossoms from their garden, for their entire married life. A glimpse of this cup brings a flood of memories for me of their wonderful home and love and devotion our entire family had for them.
When my grandparents died, the cups were gifted to my children who were the first great grandchildren. My Granny's cup I gave to my son, and my Granddad's to my daughter. Boy Child has his on his mantle at home and one day shortly, I shall send this precious one over to Girl Child to love and treasure as I do. Although separated now, these cups are still connected through the bonds of brother and sister, and one day, I hope their children will fondly remember them filled with little posies.