remember that in this line of work.’
Our place is full of things like that tablecloth. Things
that speak of making-do and desperation and aspiration.
When people can’t pay Mum’s fee, there’s almost an unspoken rule that they bring knick-knacks in lieu: pot plants,
porcelain dolls, wonkily hand-painted ceramic platters,
crystal figurines, feathered dreamcatchers, cheesy vases
only big enough for tiny rosebuds, and commemorative
coin sets by the score…You get the idea.
These things rest on every available surface in our
apartment; line the narrow hallway to the front door like
an honour guard comprised solely of kitsch. It has always
been that way for as long as I can remember. Necessity
causes us to shed things from move to move, but bric-abrac is drawn to us somehow, as if my mother and I are
especially magnetised. There are too many things to make
out in the darkening bedroom I am now sitting in; they
peek out one behind another, hanging off the cabinetry,
probably breeding furiously in the dark, exclaiming to
each other, to the silence:
You’re a star.
Thanks a bunch!
Happiness is.
They are the gifts of grateful people with no taste,
or no idea. It’s almost like the Franklin Mint, or a home
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