I find myself living in a house with a lot of built-in display space. Previous residences having been heavy on bare walls and light on decorative touches, this is the first time I’ve had to sooth empty shelves and glass fronted cabinets crying out to be filled.
In response to the uncomfortably naked shelves, I set about rounding up various trinkets that had been hidden in cupboards and closets for so long I was surprised to see them.
A vase here, a photo album there, and me being me, a couple of stuffed animals and I was done. Bits and pieces of a life laid out before me. A pastiche of family, and trips, and time.
Each object holds a memory, a story. Most of them G-rated except for one small glass dish, edged in blue. Entirely unexceptional unless, like me, you happen to remember the hour preceding its purchase 🙂
One item though, doesn’t have a story.
I don’t know where it came from or when. It was just always there, a doorstop in my parent’s house. I look at it now and I wonder…
But there’s no one to ask. Not any more.