It could have been a part of anything…
One can only second guess where things come from.
Maybe a broken home.
Or from the parlour of an old British house.
Where young dainty women sat and rocked themselves as they sipped their evening tea and filled each other with gossip. Talking of scandal, jealousies and failed love affairs.
Or from an old lady’s verandah.
Where she would rest and watch passerbys of all ages wrapped in their own busy world. Thinking of the past, her youth, love and old forgotten tales.
Or from the hall of a newly married couple.
Where the wife made sure everything matched with the curtains. And the guests would admire the colours, the flowers and the effort it all took.
It could have been just an assessory. Or a resting place for rusty bones.
And now it lies abandoned near ramshackle huts. Perhaps serving as a place to rest for those tired souls. Who shiver in streets when the night’s chill sets in.
They have no newspapers to read and they savour no morning coffee. And this is perhaps no prized second hand possession either. Or maybe they think of stories too. Of where it could have been.