life in a museum.

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i grew up in a house where we could sit only in 
certain designated chairs. 

most of the furnishings were for show, bid upon at estate auctions, 

carried home and refurbished for the display.

there were dishes not used, glassware frozen in time behind 
the glass doors of the china cabinet.

i used to tell my friends: 

i live in a museum.

i promised myself that when i owned a house, everything in it 

would have a purpose and would be used in daily life. 

my father owned a monument shop, and my sister and i would play 
amongst the outdoor displays, 
climbing on the large mound of sand and gravel

used to sandblast the tombstones. 

we would hide rocks in our pockets, each find more precious 
than the one

previously stowed. 

sparkly granites. 

smooth marble. 

tiny shells packed into the sand. 

maybe it's because i'm a short hobbiten, maybe it's because i still have 
a love for rocks,

but i'm always looking down when i walk. 

i'm always picking up rocks and shells and anything that catches the eye. 

in every bookcase, on every shelf, sitting on each windowsill of this house

in which the pencilfox family lives, 

there are rocks, and feathers, and wee miniature statues. 

occasionally i will part with a rock or a shell or a feather, 

sending them off to friends who are of like spirit, 

my soulmates on this earth. 

does everything in this house have a purpose? 

is everything in this house used in daily life?

yes. 

yes.

i am surrounded by my treasures. 

my soul is comforted with memories of where i may have discovered 
that certain rock, 

which riverbed, which creekside, which road, 

or of when angelo and i gathered feathers together.

mister pencilfox knows that the best gift he could ever give to me 
is a rock. 

just last week, sweet william hubbell wanted a rock for his birthday. 

that boy....cut from the same cloth as his mother and i....

i knew just what to send him: fossils from the stash hauled home 
through the years of living here near the coal beds.

the delight in his voice when i talked with him truly blessed my heart. 
william reported to me that he has special shelves. 
a museum, he called it.

how wonderful 
that my sister and i care more about rocks and feathers and shells

than having furnishings set aside for display-only....


i grew up in a museum. 
i live in a museum. 

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