My Gallery Granddaughter
by Gretchen Tessmer They say one of us needs to be moved to storage tomorrow morning. There’s a new acquisition coming in. Something edgy, no doubt, as the Curator is looking to increase foot traffic in our section of the gallery. It won’t be me. Although, if he gave us a choice, I’d offer to go. I’m used to being alone. I’ve sat here, at my rough-hewn kitchen table, head bowed and hands clasped, for as long as I can remember. I have only scored bread and a bowl of lukewarm soup for company. There are no windows in my scene, none visible anyway. And from where I sit, I know the door behind me is shut up tight, so I can’t see what’s outside. I don’t know what’s out there. But I expect it’s all cold winds and bitter weather. My expression’s just as bitter. Loneliness is etched into my rafters and scratched into my floorboards. My prayer gives off an air of desperation. The Curator likes this. He says it gives the piece a sense of conflict. Bernadette and Sophie hang just beside me, tw...
