As a young girl growing up on a farm in the Midwest, I learned to make do with what we had. We worked hard on the farm, but when it came to playtime, we played outside with what God gave us: imagination and a vast open space in which to roam.
Occasionally, however, my sister and I would receive hand-me-down toys from our older cousins. As secondhand goods, we made do there, as well (our Scrabble board had three holders for tiles and no one ever got to be “the hat” in Monopoly, because that piece was missing; and Barbies always had “bad hair”).
One treasure that will always stay in my memory was the tin that rattled as its contents rolled: marbles. That collection of tiny glass orbs fascinated me. I had no idea what to do with them, but I was continuously drawn to them. I loved the sound they made as they clicked together, the feel of their smooth surface, and the way I could see what they looked like at their very center.
At a time in my life when things were disjointed and often unpredictable, I returned time and again to that collection – just to let my fingers linger over the tiny little examples of perfect wholeness.
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While this was written for the photo prompt provided at Flashy Fiction, it is more of a memory, than fiction.