Short Story: The Lady Of The Plates

Short Story: The Lady Of The Plates

Rosa was wondering what remained for her to do in life. She wasn’t old. But her children were no longer children. One day soon they would move away and Rosa would not resist, knowing that they would have to live their own lives. Her husband was with her. She kept him around her like an extra blanket for a cold night. There was a comfort in his presence but she wondered, if he were not there, would she miss him?

She hated even thinking the thought. And she went back to her task. That day she was dusting the plates that she kept on display. Her husband called her the lady of the plates.

All her life she had collected plates. Of course, she used some plates to eat off but for every functional plate there must have been three or four whose purpose was simply to sit on the shelves of dressers, on tables, in cabinets, on walls, in glass cases, on mantelpieces. Sometimes she would sit in the middle of the room and turn her head slowly until she had observed every plate. When she did this she felt the gaze of the plates on her too. Most of the time the gaze was benign but sometimes she felt that she was being judged by them. “Tell us,” the plates seemed to say. “What have you done?”

She had done nothing. At times the pain of having done nothing was acute. What could she do?

One Friday – it was always a Friday – she was dusting the plates. She dusted the one with the painting of pomegranates, the one with the country scene, the one with the Arabic pattern. As she wiped, she smiled, because she loved each of the plates.

What have you done? I have collected plates.

The thought made her laugh out loud. Her most precious plate was her wedding plate, given to her by her husband on their wedding day. The plate was decorated with a beautiful picture of a red rose, a rose so perfectly painted that you believed it must be real. For twenty years she had dusted it every week and its colour never faded.

I have collected plates. The laughter bubbled up inside her, her shoulders rocked as she didn’t even try to control the outburst of joy she was feeling inside. Nor did she notice at first that the plate had slipped from her fingers, had struck the floor and shattered into pieces.

Rosa wept. She felt the loss of her most precious plate but she feared for a greater loss that she understood but could not speak. She gathered the broken shards of plate, wondered if she could glue them together again but realised she could not. She threw them away in anger.

She went out into the courtyard where the strange girl from the top of the house was watering the pomegranate tree. They didn’t speak, they rarely did. But there was a pain in Rosa’s eyes that made Julia ask: “Shall I water this?” She pointed the watering can at the rose bush. Rosa shrugged.

The rose bush needed water. It seemed to perk up at the liquid touch. Rosa bent to smell the flowers.

Later that afternoon Rosa’s husband came home. As he stepped inside the courtyard he was enveloped in the scent of roses. It was a stronger and sweeter smell than he had ever noticed before and he stopped, breathing in the scent. He loved it so much that he cut off one of the rose blooms and carried it inside with him. He placed it on the plain white plate that Rosa had set on the kitchen table. He kissed his wife and told her that the rose was beautiful.

Rosa didn’t know what to say. She was still filled with sadness. She sat down at the kitchen table so that she could serve the dinner she had cooked. As she picked up the ladle she noticed that the rose had melted into the surface of the plate; it was no longer a rose but an exquisite picture of a rose. She ladled food onto the plate, covering the image but not caring. It seemed the right thing to do and she blushed.