Once I made the decision, the execution was easy. I bought a card-stock poster board the size of a standard window and got out my red and black Sharpies and a roll of masking tape. I wrote one word—Sale-- in the bright blood-red ink. Next, I traced the arrow, then filled it in with heavy black. I mostly stayed between the lines. The arrow pointed left, to my house. I taped the sign to an old crooked oak tree in my dead ex-lover’s yard.
It was an overcast Saturday morning. I walked the half block back home and spooned instant coffee into a cup, poured cold water on and downed it. Then I gathered my possessions.
I set up under the fleece sky. I dusted off my things and set them out like shiny new toys. The small wooden box I paid most attention to. I carefully wiped it down and polished the gold keyhole with a Kleenex I had in my pocket. I brought it up to my nose and smelled it, the wood still fresh though it had been a decade since it had been sealed off. Having it all in front of me, in a symmetrical order, I felt better. I took a sip of my cold coffee crystals and waited.
My first customer was a young girl, maybe eight or so. She liked the pink leather-strapped watched he had given me with chips of diamonds in the face of it. I sold it to her for five bucks. The next sale was to an older man, his hair grayed at the temples. He wanted the collection of Shel Silverstein books for his granddaughter. I let him name his price—if he was anything like my grandpa he liked to haggle—I sold the set for two dollars, a steal. I felt lighter.
A snooty woman from up the street stopped by. She looked down her nose at my table. What caught her eye was the pair of antique teacups hand painted with powder blue forget-me-nots he bought me in Germany. She picked up one of them-- her wrinkled hands shaking, and looked at the bottom. When she saw the Schumann name, her cheeks sucked in. She asked how much I wanted. I told her ten bucks. She fumbled in her purse quickly, before I changed my mind.
I sold almost all of my items that day. Soon I would move away, out of the house, to be out of the reach of the shadow coming from the empty house of my ex-lover.
The only thing left was the box. Nobody had wanted it – there was no key for it, after all. And what was inside belonged only to him. He took the key before he left that day. He wrapped it around his neck with a cracked leather cord. I couldn’t bear to take that away from him, when it was all I had left to give.
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Reviewed by Jerry Bolton
2/4/2006
Profound bit of writing here. Great. Needs nothing. Perfect as is.
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