A Collector’s Story

Collecting was her childhood passion, never outgrown. Always there was something to snag Lily’s restless attention. She never liked dolls, with their inert, pallid arms and legs, their rouged dead faces. Lily’s first treasures hid among the commonplace, a mica-studded pebble on a gravel driveway, a Chinese tallow leaf of unsullied crimson in the grass.

Lily’s husband, Travis, didn’t collect. He maintained. The roomful of gleaming furniture he inherited from his mother was like a pet whose peculiarities they shaped their lives to fit.

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