Permanent Marker

By the time we get to a certain age or a certain amount of life lived, we begin to accept that most things are not permanent—the dust-free mantel, shorelines, relationships, our own lives. But permanent markers are advertised to be, well, permanent.  They are not.  I can scrub their marks off the freezer boxes and refill the boxes with something new. Thanks to one of my children, I have learned that you can even scrub them off a wall, though that takes more effort.

When I was a teenager, my grandmother wrote my name in blue permanent marker on the bottom of one of the dinner plates in her set of china, and showed me.  I had a hard time imagining a time when I would need plates and bowls and coffee cups of my own or a time when my grandmother wouldn’t need them herself, but my mom explained old people sometimes want us to know what things of theirs will be ours when they die.  I wasn’t ready for her to die, not then, and not 25 years later, the day after my 40^th birthday, when she did.

For several years I didn’t want the china. It didn’t feel like mine, and when I thought about bringing it to my house I felt disrespectful. How could I use my grandmother’s china without her? My parents patiently stored it at their house, maybe wisely understanding that one day I would change my mind or maybe not understanding at all but hoping I would take it.

And I did. Now, on the top shelves of my glass-fronted dining room cabinets, I have a 12-piece set of very pretty bluish gray flowered Bavarian china. We use it a few times a year, for holidays or celebrations with friends. My name is on the bottom of one of the dinner plates, but the last few times I’ve washed them I’ve noticed it’s starting to wear off. It makes me wonder if I should write someone else’s name there now.