Silly with significance...

It cost very little—Mother bought it at the local auction house.  In my eyes the layers of old varnish and dings from years of use took on the splendor of magical fantasy.  I’d sit at my new kidney-shaped vanity gazing into the mirror--seeing the faces of Debbie Reynolds, Katherine Hepburn, and Cyd Charisse just as they appeared on screen sitting before their vanities.   

My kidney-shaped vanity heard my dreams—as soon as I graduated from high school I would go to Hollywood, get a wonderful, high-paying job at a studio, and within a couple of years, go live in Paris.  (I was soon reminded of my distinct limitations—I am geographically AND directionally challenged--Paris is NOT just a hop, skip and jump across the ocean from Hollywood!)

My kidney-shaped vanity became my intimate--living in a home of continual parental altercations, it heard my cries of hope that someday my longings for happiness and peace might come true--Today wasn't good; tomorrow things would get better.

None of my friends owned a kidney-shaped vanity.  Secretly I knew they envied me.  And my young, underdeveloped heart, rather liked that.

The summer I turned 15, our family moved to Oregon.  Since all our belongings had to fit in a small trailer, my precious possession didn’t make the move.  I was heartbroken.  It was worse than leaving behind my school mates.

But time brings maturity.  I lived through that and greater losses as years went by.  When I decorated my retirement bedroom I thought of my kidney-shaped vanity.   No, I didn't need one.  I had moved on.  I now live my dreams; I have friends to confide in.  But that silly little piece of furniture will always hold that place of special memories.