A Museum of Ordinary Things

The museum contained no crowns, no battle paintings, and no rooms of gold. Its first case held twelve door handles. The second held bowls repaired with wire. Upstairs were chairs, aprons, pencil boxes, and a row of umbrellas from years when umbrellas were expected to last.

Sena began her evening round in the button room. She checked the tall windows, then the case of mother-of-pearl buttons sorted by size. Their small pale circles caught the beam of her lamp and returned it softly.

In the kitchen gallery, a blue bowl sat beside a wooden spoon worn thin at the edge. A label said only that both had belonged to the same house for fifty-three years. Sena liked that the label did not explain more.

She passed the room of clocks without winding them. Their stopped hands showed many different hours, none of which applied tonight.

At the final case she lowered her lamp. It contained a pair of wool gloves, one neatly mended at the thumb. The museum was ready for darkness. Sena closed the door, and all the ordinary things continued being ordinary without anyone watching.