In a quiet moment the other day as I was watering my plants, I picked up an older, well-loved pitcher to water with and this poem came to my mind. I'm not much of a poet, but if the mood strikes, embrace it!
This pitcher is a constant at our dinner table,
It brings an unspoken ritual to our gathering each night.
It holds our water, which we pour into our glasses and propose a toast, "may we eat with appetite and drink with pleasure", we say as the glasses chink.
Ella uses this pitcher to show us how big she has become, when she wraps her pudgy hands around it, places her lips firmly on the spout, all the while trying to counter her slight weight against that of the belly and successfully takes a drink!
Brynn delights in pouring the water herself to all family members. She proudly lifts the full-bodied pot full of beverage and pours, mostly without spilling, our nightly drink.
Our eldest, Eli, engages in a game of trying to see how seldom he has to fill the pitcher and bring it to the table. When he is reminded he revels in blaming his younger sisters for forgetting.
This small, well-used pitcher, one made in St. Louis, before we had any children, before dinners were a regular event, has become the center of our table, the beginning of our cherished meal, the vessel which holds much more than water.