It was my father’s and sat on his bureau for as long as I can remember. He liked because it reminded him of the Porcellian Club and because it once held some sort of alcoholic beverage.
My dad was generally a nice guy and always an elegant dresser. A conflicted man who had a very hard time leaving the destructive sanctuary of his family.
When I looked at the little pig this morning lit by the sun through the frost on our window, I remembered my long dead father in a pleasant way.