Wheeling
I sat on a bright yellow chair in the bright yellow sun. It was for sale, for a dollar. Everything was. Three little French boys lurked around, touching everything, grubby fingers pulling and prodding. "Combien?" Every two seconds. The smallest one picked up another shopper's cell phone, he wanted to buy it. He was quick that kid. Next, he was opening the cash box. Although he did turn a bit red when he realised. My boyfriend gave them the mini tramp without legs. They rolled it away quite satisfied. I was glad nothing of mine was for sale. I don't like people looking at my things like that, it makes me uncomfortable. I went to a deceased estate sale once. The house of the dead man was exactly as he had left it. We shuffled through, making offers on anything and everything. Sifting through the still full kitchen and bedroom drawers. Hunting in the closets, in the bathroom cabinets. It didn't feel polite. But I got a cheap set of golf clubs, so I was happy.
posted by tui at 1:09 PM
4 Comments:
play golf?
What always strikes me about estate sales..is how what we 'own' really means nothing..like eysterday's news it may as well be blowing off of sidewalks and into the wind.
In the case of the stuff belonging to soemone who has passed it's even more apparent that it is so.
I recall arriving at an aunts place right after she died..her slippers with imprints of her feet on the soles were placed neatly under her bed..heel part sticking out where she'd left them so they'd be ready for her to slip into that next night.
I went about the business of preparing for a funeral and that night when I arrived back at her place..they they were waiting patiently..for a pair of feet that were long gone.
I stared at those sad & lonely looking yellow cotten terry cloth slippers for a long long time.
'We' are all that we have..and even that is debatable sometimes.
Wonderful comment Mary. I have missed you. I'm so glad you're back.
Reverend, yes I love golf. Although I haven't played in Canada, it seems a bit ooh lah lah around here.
AND
Mary, I tried to comment on your blog, but every time I press 'post comment' it takes me straight to the FBI homepage... very creepy.
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