GLASSES

There they were glasses of every shape and size, a testament to the sacrament of alcohol and the rite of social parties. There was the blood of Pan poured into a crystal goblet and set before you with a flourish and a cocktail napkin. The depth of the wine’s redness glowed in the candlelight.

Pan’s flesh was in the imported crackers and cheese, black olives his dark eyes starring at you from the plate. Who plucked them from his face?

Don’t be distracted by the music, it’s just a raucous hymn. The dresses, tuxes, and jewels are as effective in their own way as priest’s robes and nun’s habits. Costumes of sincerity. Are the mendicants aware of their roles?

You would believe it so if you could have seen the hostess the next morning cleaning up. She washed and polished each champagne flute and brandy snifter, each German beer stein and crystal mug, and placed them reverently back into the glass fronted cabinet. There they waited for the next convocation on Saturday night.

It was an honor to be served a drink from one of those glasses during the week, a minor yet still acknowledged ritual. The glasses were more intoxicating than the liquor.

When I inherited them, I threw them all away.