The Tea Pot Passed Down

I was about 6 years old when I discovered there was a treasure hidden in our house. It was in the dead of winter after the harvest and farmers had time on their hands to reflect and plan for the next growing season.

One lazy afternoon, sitting in front of a glowing fireplace, my daddy would make his way up the steps to a secret place in the attic and bring down a cardboard box. I could tell by the way he held it, that something special was inside. A child-like joy was in his eyes as he opened the box and unwrapped the layers of news paper protecting the treasure.

With his glasses on the edge of his nose and a magnifying glass, he'd venture around the eight sided pot as if it were the first time. It was porcelain white with beautiful blue drawings. I held my hands behind me and leaned in as he pointed out pudgy angelic babies with wings. I was not about to touch anything so valuable. My eyes were wide with wonder as he told me the story of how it once belonged to German royalty, and how it fell into the hands of our ancestors.

The fire slowly turned to ashes as my imagination soared like a spark of stars. Daddy would carefully wrap the treasure and return it to its holy place until another winter. I have a special fondness for the tea pot, but it's daddy's pride in his inheritance and listening to his stories that is the real treasure.