The hole in the wall.

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Out in the country side there’s a little town where I often pass by. The two main streets meet each other at a stop sign where silence is always the main music in the air. No people on the sidewalks, a couple of pick-up trucks here and there and occasionally a police car watching the strangers , like me, pass by. I pretend I don’t see them and set myself on auto pilot mode because only rabbits and me know how hard it’s to cruise at 25 mph.

The little white house with a sign saying “ANTIQUES” is on that same corner, forgotten by the world, just sitting there. After attempting to visit the store a few times and finding it closed, I tried again because I “felt”, like Alice in Wonderland, that I had to enter the hole in the tree.

The door was unlocked this time, and in I went… Finding the shop owner and saying Hi, I kept walking with a mission of finding a few odd plates, one of a kind, single number, rare or different. You know how it feels when you are surrounded by objects with past lives, they talk, and they talk fast because they have a ton of stories to tell you and they all want to go home with you in the hopes of having a life again. By touching each one you feel their stories. You inspect, hold, and imagine how you could use them or who do you know that could adopt them.

When it’s time to pay and leave, the lady behind the desk comes out to talk and somehow the conversation evolves.  By the time I leave, I know already a lot about someone’s soul than I could have imagined, a lot to capture in such a short time. Her story, her husband’s story, her daughter’s, her neighbors’, her shop’s, her house’s.

Another week, another stop. Now that we are friends, me and the objects, they all shout my name asking for attention. I take their pictures and promise to post them on social media to make them famous. Some of them are lucky and were placed by the front windows where the sunshine can kiss them good morning. Others are placed in the smaller room on the back of the store. Since nobody is ever around, except the shop owner who sits at her desk, I feel free to walk around and crawl under tables and behind heavy objects to see each item. Secretly I move some of them forward because I believe they all need a chance for fresh air. They need a chance to be seen by the next visitors.

I keep promising them I will always come back and rotate their spots, pretending I’m the shop owner. I already found a buyer for a piece of furniture there, next will be a big glass window and a chandelier.  Going back is like going on vacation into a far away dimension.

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