The curator

The blade is dull.

Once a shining wedding present, the 23 year old carving knife now acts as a bookmark in his office.

It sits in the middle of a coffee stained pottery book resting on an artist’s easel.

This still life is to the left of a collection of quarters, dimes and nickels meticulously rearranged into three fresh piles every morning.

I notice the jingle from the soup spoons he carries daily in his pockets has been replaced by the sweeter sound of tiny baby spoons belonging to my granddaughter.

It seems a curator’s job is never quite done.

Even when the mind appears to be.

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