there is a porcelain jug on our mantlepiece. it is white with gold and copper, and it appeared last week. father moved the pottery house and the China cat to make space, then he gave them to me. they look out of place among my things. he did not tell me where he got it, but Ruth suspects it was a gift.
last month, he brought home a patterned rug. father put it in the study, but Ruth saw it and told me. the month before, a silver bell, and before that, a book about art. father does not need these things. they are useless, really.
i do not care much, but you see, i know the story of the China cat.
i know about Venice and the sunset and the melted ice cream, the smell of the roses and the midnight moon.
i know about the cobbled streets and late night cafes, the cheap coffee and the violinist.
i know about the dark brown dress and pink socks, the laughter on the bridge and the light in the windows.
i know about the footsteps and the songs, the spilt beer on the stones and the rainbow on the ceiling.
i do not know the story of the porcelain jug.