The dresser.
I found it in the backyard of the studio in New York and hoisted it up the fire escape, all the way up to the third floor.
I stripped multiple layers of nasty brown and bilious green paint till I found the wood, which turned out to be oak.
The dresser traveled with me when we left New York, and all the stops till now, where at the moment, it is resting in my bedroom in Mismaloya.
So many years, so many memories.
Today, escaping Juanito working on some repairs in the living room and sitting on my bed trying to read a book, I suddenly saw the dresser in a new light and realized that it really is not very pretty, not pretty at all. It is more like the spinster in a Victorian novel, plain, solid and durable.
This doesn't mean I like it less, only that I am not fooling myself into thinking this a great piece of furniture. It is not. But it is mine and there are untold memories stored in the three crooked drawers and I would never want to part with that.