On my windowsill, there is a cloisonné egg, a dried rose given to me by Franz Klammer and a turquoise toy Fiat 1500. The egg is mine, it was gifted to me by my grandfather. The car is not mine, however. But I remember that I found it in the bottom of a box, mixed in with objects that once belonged to the little boy my father once was.
I love objects with stories. I miss visiting the homes of my friends and seeing the objects they have preserved which ones they deem worthy of keeping on their shelves. The objects on my windowsill have been there so long that when I pick them, there is a faint ring around where the base of the object rests against the wood.