Sometimes I daydream

The sweet Sarah Sol embarks on a whimsical journey through a young woman’s portrait and discovers her many secrets. 

Vintage glass bottles, stained yellow with age and ceramic plates that have met hands long since rested. Pottery and kitchenware that once brewed more than just stew. The items on the shelf peer with tired eyes, exhausted from age but excitement gleams with the hope of another life. Whispers of ghosts linger at every touch on dusty shelves, their possessive sports afraid to let go of what once was theirs. A blind dog stumbles into a shelf of porcelain statues - I hold my breath as they wobble on the crooked table, but my partner holds his breath, hoping the dog is ok. 

Every item in this store has been loved once before, or perhaps it was just used. Whether it was someone’s favourite cup and saucer they treasured and passed down, or something that stayed in a box and was only sold after the estate was divided or an untouched mug sold and craving life all these years later. My lover cringed as I picked up a photo frame:

“It’s broken,” he pointed at the sharp edges mismatched to its mirrored side.

“Isn't it magical?” I whisper in disbelief. 

“You can just buy a new one.”

“But those new ones don’t hold unknown stories.”

I bought the girl in the picture frame. She was handpainted in the 1820s on a brass frame, shattered and worn with time, and she now hangs on my bedroom wall. Sometimes I daydream of the life she had before me. Was she loved or preserved in unwantedness? I picture her coming to life and dancing in the frame -  she would tell me who she was painted after, the artist's daughter who was a ballerina. She tells me she was hung on a cluttered wall between dozens of photo frames where you could barely see the original colour of the wall; it was too cluttered with love. She tells me the daughter packed her up in a box and she was left in the attic. Many years later, she was discovered again by a granddaughter who hung the picture above the TV in memory of her mother. The granddaughter threw a ball and she fell, and that’s how she became chipped at the edges. 

The girl in the picture is unknown to me but I shall cherish her in case she was never cherished in her past. 

Sometimes I daydream of the old dresser I found in a thrift shop. I was quick to snatch it up and forced my hefty brother to haul it into the back of the car and build it for me. It is too big for my room, but it reminds me how romantic life can be. 

Sometimes I daydream of the girl in the mirror. She wears the same face as mine - during the day that is. 

How did she get there, stuck in the mirror? 

Is she a soul that was cursed or was she a young girl who just spent too much time at her dresser. If she was trapped before she is more trapped now. See the problem with thrifting is they don’t all come with magical stories, some are cursed and haunted with remnants of ghosts, spirits or demons. Drawing stars in egg whites, I seal over the mirror to stop things from passing through. The girl in the mirror wears my face and she smiles back at me with pretty green eyes during the day. 

When I was younger I would daydream. 

I collected owls, they were my favourite animals because they had big eyes like me. Smiggle erasers shaped in my feathered friends lined my shelves like an army guarding the night. The pillows beneath my chin and the patterns on my purple pyjamas were coated and smothered in owls. I wasn't afraid of the dark back then, but I was afraid of what lurked within. I believed once I closed my eyes the owls would wake up - like they did in Toy Story. They would flutter their feathers and open their glowing eyes, and they’d catch the snakes that tried to slither into my bed and gobble them up. They guard the window from creatures outside and guard the door stopping anyone who dares interrupt my soundless slumber.

Now that I’m older I daydream still - that the girl in the mirror met the girl in the picture. They talk like bestfriends, sharing stories that last a millenia. They cannot wait until I close my eyes for they pour vintage tea and laugh like the old ladies that they are. Or do they glare as I sleep whispering curses over my head, chanting latin phrases and hoping they will one day get out. Tell me, did the girl in the picture always have bloodshot red eyes? Or was it only for that one night at 3am?