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a passionate repentance



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may God stand
When I first got married, my husband had a ceramic statue of Smaug which he displayed on the book case in our living room. We didn't have a lot, we ate on a card table and we watched a tiny tv, but we were very proud of the things that we did have, that we brought with us from our old lives. And he was very proud of this red-washed ceramic piece with the horns, and strange, malformed little wings that look like they couldn't possibly support him, let alone create terror in the hearts of the Men of the Mark.

I quite liked the piece, and since I was a housewife for the first time in my life, I actually had a bit of time to stare at the thing. I made up stories about it, I talked to it in my stranger moments, and I daydreamed about getting other LOTR things to put beside it. Rather like a hunter dreams of one more trophy, I expect.

Now I have found him, on top of our larger television set with a broken wing, and a forlorn look and dust coating his horns (the same horns that made him look more like an extremely pissed-off cat than a dragon to me). I glued the wing back on, and the mend is nearly invisible, but I cannot help thinking that it's emblematic of something. Maybe that after a while the symbols that meant so much to you lose their value? Or maybe that you really cannot hope to display ceramic figures when you have a goofy and overweight Persian who thinks she's an aerialist.

In an hour when my husband wakes, I'll give him back his Smaug, and I'll go on back to scrubbing at pens, and repairing them and he'll go on to work. Later on, I'll go and do more training for the job I'm set to do, a job that doesn't really *feel* like a job, yet. When I hand back the dragon, I'll be asking him "Do you remember.." I don't doubt that he'll say yes, though it's probably not what I remember.

It almost never is.
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