On the table, burnt orange gravy is congealing on the plates - the good ones, with the scalloped edges and the gold trim. When you hold them up to the light, they glow, like small moons in your careful hands. Their place in the hutch yawns beside the teapot, with its hand-painted roses.

When you were young, you decided that the tea set must be bone china, and you would roll your feet delicately across the dining room carpet, ease yourself onto the plush seat of the good chairs. The door of the hutch always stuck, resisting the pull to open. But you knew how much pressure, how much time, where to place your other hand, when to breathe. The belly of the teapot cradled in the bowls of your small hands, you turned it slowly from side to side, looking for the impressions of eye sockets, the shadow of a spiny ridge of calcified teeth.
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The champagne, what was left from the toast, dwindled in the flutes. Your glass was just under half-full with the remains you were saving for dessert. The others were down to shallows, or left with the few drops that would never fully drain, just huddle at the bottom like the wet gleam of your mother’s eyes across from you. Not crying. Not yet.

From upstairs, the footsteps set the china shivering in the hutch. Teacups danced nervously on their saucers; wine glasses shimmied and chimed. You all knew the sounds well, of the orchestra warming up.
You don’t even have to listen anymore. You do, but only halfway, only out of habit. You sit gazing at the teapot gleaming from the center shelf, wondering if it gazes back.