erin

relics

My grandmother started the collection but my father kept adding to it once he inherited. He’s already explained the key rule to me in case I want to continue it myself someday: they have to have been used.

There are antique hand-painted porcelain ones and cheap plastic versions with muddied features. Some are exaggerated cutesy cartoons while others are properly proportioned with highly detailed suits and gowns. Tiny top hats. Minuscule lace.

A few have traces of long-dried frosting clinging to hems or dusting shoes like sugar snow.

I wonder what each pair’s wedding was like. What they saw through unblinking eyes before being taken down from their tiered cake watchtowers.

I know realistically it’s unlikely that each miniature couple’s life-sized counterparts lived happily ever after, but I hope that they did.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

do-it-yourself centerpieces

I worry that they won’t get it.

I half-heartedly ask if maybe we should include instructions but everyone frowns.

But I’m relieved when the consensus is no.

And still a teensy bit concerned that they won’t know what to do.

Or worse, that they will find it silly.

We place the bouquets of white flowers at the center of each white-covered table.

We make sure the crayons are close enough to the flowers to be clearly connected.

When the guests arrive there are whispered questions and curious glances that are soon are replaced with thoughtful color choosing and tentative experimenting.

The delighted laughter follows.

Before long blooms burst with color on every table.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

i have heard the mermaids singing 

My sister says it must be mermaids, but I don’t think the stream is deep enough for mermaids.

We get in an argument about how much water mermaids need and decide it depends on how they breathe and we agree they must at least be able to breathe air sometimes because if they couldn’t they wouldn’t be able to sing and we both agree that the mermaids sing.

We don’t agree about the rocks, though. I still say mermaids wouldn’t flop around our shallow stream just to build little towers of rocks but when she demands another explanation I don’t have one.

After a thorough investigation during which we accidentally knock one of the towers over we decide that mermaids must be nocturnal since the rocks were stacked overnight.

We ask if we can camp in the backyard and dad asks why and I don’t have a good non-mermaid answer but my sister says we want to commune with nature and he laughs but says it’s okay and we can come inside if we get tired of communing or if there are too many bugs.

The moon is bright enough to see fine from the yard but we put the tent in the shadows of a tree so the mermaids won’t be able to see us from the water and we take turns checking from the shore to make sure it’s properly camouflaged.

While we wait in the dark we whisper about what the rock towers might be for because we didn’t discuss that earlier and we decide they might be for directions, like a mermaid map signaling system.

We wait and wait and wait and nothing happens and my eyelids get heavy but I don’t realize I’m mostly asleep until my sister shakes me to get my attention.

She covers my mouth to shush me before I say anything and points to the water where a hand is reaching up from the dark surface and slowly re-stacking the rocks we knocked over and then I can hear the singing.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.