I recall a decoration my mother had when I was young, and probably still has sitting out on a shelf in our small hovel. It was a wooden statue, hand-carved, of two old men playing checkers. One sitting on a luggage box, the other on a barrel, looking at the board resting on both of their knees, ready to begin their game.
This bauble came from a bundle of merchandise donated to our poorest people from Europe, and she picked it up while in town because no one wanted it. It was useless. Just a silly decoration that made no sense to anyone. Anyone but my mother.
She felt something with the statue. Felt a presence. Felt the presence of the maker, and somehow connected with that person, mentally, even though they were long gone and beyond. The piece always gave her a sense of calm, a sense of humanity. She used to say,
