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Yard Sale By Teresa Freeman I spent today thinking about someone I didn't even know. I went to a yard sale this morning, where everything in the house was for sale. I selected two nice rain slickers, a chenille sweater, a corduroy shirt, a summery rayon dress, some rhinestone or cubic zirconia earring studs, some kitchen spices, and kitchen ware. While roaming through rooms and surveying items, a woman told me that the lady of the house was selling everything because she was moving. Her 40-something year old daughter, who had recently moved in with her, had died of cancer. All of a sudden everything I picked up and examined had a new meaning and my mind was full of questions. I watched other customers -- people I knew in our small, rural town, and people I hadn't seen before -- sliding skirts and tops on hangers across the clothes bars, looking for something that appealed to them. Looking for colors she had picked out, or maybe someone else had chosen for her. Why did I feel like a vulture at this moment, my arms aching with the heaviness of someone else's possessions? I caught a glimpse of the mother, resting on a bar stool, making small talk with a customer's young daughter, asking if she ever liked to have her long hair braided. I wondered if the woman had ever braided her own daughter's hair, and if she was thinking about it then. I admired her in that moment. What a brave woman she was, offering her daughter's possessions for sale, watching strangers pick through these very personal items, discarding mostly everything, until they came upon one that tickled their fancy. Just like I had done. What was she thinking as she was watching strangers sift through her daughter's things? Her expression was strong, rock-like, yet she smiled at the little girl with the long hair. Another woman, perhaps a neighbor, was taking care of totaling up prices, and I handed my selections over to her. Everything was priced so inexpensively, and I wondered for a moment why the mother hadn't donated all her daughter's possessions to a thrift shop. Maybe she needed the money. Maybe she wanted this to be over with as quickly as possible, so she priced the items very low. After I paid and was leaving, the mother kindly thanked me, and I wanted to say something to her, but I didn't know what or how to say what was in my mind. I wanted to tell her I'm sorry her daughter died, sorry she had to go through this obvious misery of unloading her daughter's things to strangers, sorry that I must seem like a vulture, but glad that perhaps I had helped her out in her mission to dispose of these material things. I left, with a shy "thank you", in response to her solid "thank you". I wondered where she might move to, somewhere where she didn't need kitchen ware? She was selling EVERYTHING. At home, I cleaned the earring posts with alcohol and admired the brilliance of the diamond look-alikes. I wondered if the daughter bought them herself, or if they were a gift. I wondered what she looked like. At the yard sale, there was a brown, curly wig for sale, and I thought perhaps it had been hers. I was told she had had chemo and lost her hair, that she died before her real hair grew back. The orange-flowered print of the summery rayon dress felt so silky, and I wondered if she had bought this while vacationing at the beach. It looked just like the lovely, flimsy dresses you would find at those touristy shops that line the ocean front. I wondered what kind of sandals she had worn with this pretty dress. I knew she liked the same earthy colors I enjoy, as I tried on the dark brown corduroy shirt and the lovely brown print sweater. Were these her favorites, clothes she wore repeatedly because she felt good in them? I washed the pyrex pie plates, casserole dish, and an old fashioned, thick glass salad bowl. I wondered if her mother had prepared home-cooked meals for her in these dishes -- her favorite pies, healthful salads in hopes her body would gain nutrition it needed, and comfort foods that we crave when we're feeling wistful for the security of childhood? I carefully dried the glass dishes and found places in my cupboards for them. I smoothed the winter clothes and hung them with mine. I'm wearing the sparkly earrings and feel a little prettier when I look into the mirror. I'll wash the dress and hang it to dry tomorrow. We have another month of hot weather, and I know the little dress will feel cool and comfortable. I know the mother will move and I'll probably never see her again. I'll never know her daughter's personality or what she looked like. But, I'll sure wonder. About the author: Seventeen years ago I moved to a rural farming community in northeastern North Carolina. Alongside my husband and teenage son, I have discovered my passions of observing nature and writing poetry. | | | |
First Person Archive Most recent: 2008 November October September August July June May April March February January 2007 December November October September August July June May April March February January 2006 December September Submit Your First Person Story A while back, we invited listeners to send us a short story or a poem about their homes for a feature called "Stories from Home." We're resurrecting this feature, but we're calling it "First Person" a place for you to give us your stories, poems, or short fiction. | |
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