Wandering down long aisles of long ago forgotten merchandise. Ping pong tables, distatched blender parts, Barbie doll limbs, and mounds of stuffed animals. Their overly optimistic glances following me around the room. Bending to pick up a fallen price tag, I look up to an ancient dresser. The mirror balanced precariously on top stares at me with a glazed over, glassy-eyed look that could only be achieved with one to many coats of Windex.

It smells metallic, silvery gray. I guess evidence of the Windex. Running my hands along the vanity’s many ruts; I wonder how this came to be here. It feels warm, glossy and worn under my hands. Why would someone give it up? How much history has been reflected in its tarnished eyes? How many memories are caught inside the glass, trapped, crystallized in its reflective tome?

How many decades has it lived through? How many people have lived their lives in front of it? How many histories have been recorded in its seemingly dormant gaze? How many secrets have been dropped haphazardly into its burdened drawers? How many people have sat in its tottering chair and pondered of the future? How many of them knew that the future would then sit and think of the past?

The columns running the length of the mirror are ribbed and feel like pencils huddling together to support the weight of the glass. Because of being constantly pushed and nudged, the carpet beneath its legs is covered with dents. A rubbery squeak emits from it as I drag my fingers along its smooth base.
The mottled bureau almost smells like oatmeal: a weathered cinnamon aroma comes issuing off of it. I notice the original drawer handles have been replaced with matte silver knobs. This piece now contradicts its warming presence, pulling it unwillingly into modernity.

Spiraled globes connect the feet of the dresser to the rest of the piece.

Its mere shadowy existence creates a meaning in the otherwise cluttered room full of masses of unwanted rubbish. Memories that are not mine come flooding. Just knowing that it has a history creates a kind of magnetic pull. I could be its next observation, another section in its volumes of prerecorded history. Or just the next person to call it theirs. To become a part of it. Past, present, and future.