Washing the dishes the other day, I picked up the white enamel colander I’d used to drain thawed berries before folding them into cake batter. Dishwashing is a thoughtless habit, but this time I found myself considering the colander with its arcing rows of holes, black rim and dark, chipped places. It has been in my life forever.

My mother bought it when we lived in Oregon — before we moved back east 60 years ago. She likely found it in a five and dime store. And here it is still, ready for each day’s rinsing and draining. My mother’s parents came from Naples, Italy to New York at different times. Their marriage soon ended, though I’m not sure why. My mom grew up in a house with her mother, grandmother, two uncles (for a while), and, until he died when she was 7, her beloved grandfather, a professor.