The house in my house

I have a small porcelain house that sits next to the kitchen sink.  It isn’t used for anything, being about half the height of my thumb.  It just keeps me company.  A friend of my mother’s  gave it to me, in a box of casserole dishes, tupperware and other randomly useful kitchen stuff.  It was the sort of stuff you give to a young girl setting up her own kitchen for the first time.  I think she intended to give it to her daughter, but she never got the chance.

When my mother saw the little house she told me it was wonderful, it would follow me to every house I lived in and make me feel good every time I saw it.  I thought she was a bit loopy, but it turns out she was right.  I look on this little house with a lot of affection.

The little house keeps company with a tiny Eiffel Tower.  The Eiffel Tower is a souvineer from our trip to France, the one where Ryan proposed.  Now the tower holds my engagement and wedding rings while I wash the dishes.

I’m not usually a trinketty person, but the little tower and the little house have been with me for a long time now.  Washing the dishes makes me grumpy, but even on days when I feel far from family, or overwhelmed by stuff-to-do, or offended by the necessity of household drudgery –  these trinkets make me happy.

I look at the little house and think it’s come so far with our little family.  And I get to hang my rings on the Eiffel Tower.


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