I wish my grandmother didn’t live in a bungalow. I have always wished she lived in a place that had a fabulous attic like the stories I’ve read. It would be full of old trunks, letters, books, and perhaps a dress form like this standing the shadows. I could still lose afternoons in a place like that.
I am hopelessly nosey.
My father has written love letters in calligraphy to my mother that I have only heard my mother speak about, never seen. If I had the chance I would love to know that part of their lives – the romance and the side that children don’t see. This painting is surrounded by those sorts of ideas. Of semi-hidden treasures, and dust motes floating in sunbeams.
So here’s to the spelunking side of thing, the box opening, letter reading, dress form reclaiming side of things. The side of us that clings to family in a way to find ourselves as well as our parents.