Friday, July 30, 2010

Yard sale

I wonder how many other moms have ever cried on the way to the bank the eve of a yard sale. Yesterday the girls asked me if they could play with a toy before I sell it. I wondered what kind of thoughts are going through their minds, at the same time amused that toys previously forgotten suddenly gain new favor with a fifty-cent sticker on it. Remembering the hopscotch I bought Lanie when she was three that we played over and over, and the cute little winter snow bibs and coat that made Erin look so bloated she couldn't move. I know it's just stuff: the baby gates, the crib, the highchair and strollers. All of it, stuff. Yet somehow it seems the memories behind them are getting packed up as well now that visual triggers are being sold.

A friend told me she felt quite the same as she packed up her parents' things for charity after her father had died and her mother moved to a smaller home. 

Not looking too closely at what's piled all around me, lest I am tempted to assign too much sentimental value. I ruthlessly stuck cheap prices on things to move it out. Downsizing our lives, and reassessing our now. Hoping for traffic, and endless coffee cups.

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