Two weeks ago, by best friend’s father died. She flew in from California and started busying herself with arrangements for his memorial service. She hunted the house he had lived in for over forty years for buried treasures. Some pieces of paperwork were quickly discovered, much to her relief. Other things were discovered by surprise and were quite affecting. She found a shoebox full of birthday cards she and her brother gave him when they were children.

I tried to think of ways I could help her. Her sadness, I knew, would spin out slowly over time. I walked through the basement with her last week. It was overwhelming. All the stuff. “Do you need any pots and pans?” she asked “Do you want some aluminum foil?” It seemed as if her father and mother (who passed away more than five years earlier) were saving narrow cartons of Reynolds Wrap in their basement bunker as if preparing for a long stay underground.There must have been over a dozen packages. “Barbecue your brains out,” she added, trying to make a joke. “If you want anything else, take it.”

I picked up an umbrella, deep forest green with small golden flowers, a wooden shaft and a clear, curved and tapered handle. So unlike the six dollar collapsible numbers I usually pick up at a Walgreen’s or CVS when I am out and the sky opens up.

“Look at this. It’s beautiful,” she said, noticing a small silver tray lying askew on a box on top of the family’s old ping pong table. “Art Deco. Simple lines. You’d like this.”

I looked at the piece. A round silver tray, no more than twelve inches in diameter. Unwrapped, untouched in a damp basement for years, it had become very black and tarnished. What would I do with this? I thought. I don’t throw elaborate parties. I don’t have a butler. I am pretty much a no muss, no fuss kind of girl.

I nodded and smiled. I took it took it home.

I have only one other piece of nice silver. I have a silver bowl that I allowed to get tarnished. It was a wedding present from a marriage that didn’t make it to its leather (three-year) anniversary. It occupied space in a rarely visited storage area for most of twenty-five years. More recently, I used it for my own burning bowl ceremonies, where I would light small pieces of paper that represented something I wanted to release. This made it even blacker. Just a few months ago, I decided to bring my bowl back to its original luster. I came up with a symbolic purpose for it that had nothing to do with burning. I guess I would do the same with this gift.

I put on thick yellow latex gloves and poured Tarn-X over the center of the plate. A very understated sheen began blossoming before my eyes. The flat surface almost seemed to go from black to white as soon as it was coated. I took out a very soft rag, a strip of old cotton tee-shirt, soaked it, and started rubbing the edges of the plate. I took out an old toothbrush and ran it over tight curves in the trim. Here, it was harder to coax the dark crevices into reclaiming their original sparkle. I started thinking about where I wanted to put the plate. I decided on the top of a small cabinet in my bedroom. I could put a small candle there. I would leave my watch there, maybe earrings or other jewelry when I was done with my public self for the day.

Gloved and practically sweating over my kitchen sink as I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed the plate into shining, I answered my own question. What would I do with this gift? I decided I would apply effort. I conceived of a purpose and place for it. And then, I recognized, I was really going to enjoy its beauty. Part of the gift in my new art deco silver tray was the way it encouraged me to put forth effort.

Polishing silver is no small thing.