As I traverse the years, it’s surprising how many memories seem to take up residence in that cabinet. It’s like a Pandora’s box; opening it might unleash all the forgotten family tales and incidents we all subtly choose to ignore. But why? Why does no one touch Mom’s China cabinet?
It’s not like it has some ancient curse or would collapse if I dared to get a plate from it. But there it is — an unspoken family rule, as firm as the ground we walk on. The China stays in the cabinet; the cabinet stays closed. End of story.