The Fourth Plate

It took a long time to get used to removing the three plates from the cupboard; and three cups, forks, knives, spoons, napkins.
What had been in use was now just a spare plate, bowl, cup. In mute testimony they sat as though they were waiting for, wanting, what the old days required of them. They had purpose, but remained frozen in time while the others grew old and worn with the added mileage - stretching the distance away from the first day, the first for real day they remained in the cupboard.
The fourth of everything should have been thrown out, not even given but thrown where all garbage goes. Even the fourth chair. We should have burned it in the fireplace, gathered the cold, gray ashes and flushed them down the porchelain 'throne'.
No. Instead he was able to continue torturing us via the fourth plate.
Even many years later in a moment accidental, when thought is far off, does the hand retrieve the heart's never-failing longing for the family of four of anything. Isn't it interesting that through all these years that damn plate like a memory remains clear through time while the other three tire and clearly show the signs of wear?

I have said this before and I'll say it again - the dad in a family has an awesome responsibility to stay his course, because the damage he can do leaves an imprint that takes their children a lifetime to survive and try to overcome.