At home I walked through a haze of belongings that knew, at least vaguely, who
they belonged to. Grampar’s chair resented anyone else sitting on it as much as
he did himself. Gramma’s shirts and jumpers adjusted themselves to hide her
missing breast. My mother’s shoes positively vibrated with consciousness. Our
toys looked out for us. There was a potato knife in the kitchen that Gramma
couldn’t use. It was an ordinary enough brown-handled thing, but she’d cut herself
with it once, and ever after it wanted more of her blood. If I rummaged through the
kitchen drawer, I could feel it brooding. After she died, that faded. Then there were
the coffee spoons, rarely used, tiny, a wedding present. They were made of silver,
and they knew themselves superior to everything else and special.
None of these things did anything. The coffee spoons didn’t stir the coffee without
being held or anything. They didn’t have conversations with the sugar tongs about
who was the most cherished. I suppose what they really did was physiological.
They confirmed the past, they connected everything, they were threads in a tapestry.
- Jo Walton, Among Others
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| By Brian McGloin |
