This is a chess set - maybe more like a collection of mismatched objects rather than a single object, but I think of it as a single item. The pieces are lightweight, hollow plastic, hailing from 2 or 3 different original sets. One of the pawns has had its top broken off, and several pieces are chipped. The board is made of worn wood, the paint on its surface scratched from a long life of many games. A small brass hook on one side keeps it clasped shut when it's not in use, storing the mismatched pieces. Boards like this are a dime a dozen in Russia.
I found this chess set in an overstuffed drawer in the apartment I'm renting in Siberia. So it's not mine, though it is in my possession. It is owned by a woman named Darima, whom I have never met, and whose daily habits and passions I can only guess at through details of her living space. Like this chess set. The broken pieces connect me to her in that way. And I silently thank her every time I move a piece on the board, because this chess board also connects me to my partner on the other side of the globe. We play chess via email and internet chats, he with wooden rooks in Bloomington and me with these gracefully curving plastic knights in Ulan-Ude. This is an ordinary chessboard, but on my kitchen windowsill, it becomes a portal to other lives, of both strangers and lovers.