A Good Pourer

I took from the fridge the cut glass cream jug, sipped the dregs, then on tiptoes set it in the sink with a squirt of detergent, determined to do it all by myself. I felt the crack as hot water burst through the base, the burn of tears scalding my face long after Mum’s But it was such a good pourer For years she used the chubby pottery replacement I slipped out to buy (for 12 ½ pence). Mismatched, yet solid on the table, Mum handled it delicately: though it always poured with hesitance, as if choking an apology.