My ornament.
The tree is not complete until I have hung my ballerina.
My father was a skier; my mother, a woman straight from the court of Louis XVI; my sister, an Eskimo. And I was the ballerina. Why? Who knows.
This is the one ornament that I am totally, irrationally anal about. Nobody else touches it. It goes way up high. It spends the rest of the year wrapped in tissue in the most secure part of the ornament box. One of those crazy links with the past. Rapidly approaching genuine antique status.
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