Eggs, pots and oranges

A miniature baby plays the mandolin. He may just be a better entertainer than the TV he sits on.
My 7-year-old cousin used to be afraid of that old, dusty feathered pheasant. Ever since he gave it a name he isn't anymore.
When fruits won't grow in our garden, supermarket oranges will always be an option. Those tangerine moons are symbols for Christmas, but we eat them on Easter day, too.
My Grandmother wears blue and she won't let me photograph her unless her hair is combed (but my uncle gladly does). She found a new meaning for this pair of trousers that I used to wear. The painted eggs indeed needed something to dry on.
This is my home, the one I grew in. And it's made of eggs, pots and oranges, and fractions of life yet to be lived.