We sold their lives today.
Sixty years of collecting,
lying there like so much rubbish,
just waiting for someone to make an offer.
Selling memories is heartbreaking business.
First it was two for a dollar,
then six for a quarter,
and finally,
ten for a penny.
I waded through
too many
salvaged coffee cans, flower pots, and garden tools.
Shame on you, Grampa.
We all thought Gramma was the pack-rat.
Everything is half off.
I watched her struggle to maintain composure
when the offers were low;
she wanted to hold on to that tiller-
the one he used for so many years.
I wanted to scream “NO!” for her
when she sighed consent
and hung her head,
too weary and old to
argue again.
So many times she heard it-
“Do you want to keep this?”
“Take it,”
was always her reply.
What she meant was,
“Take it, because I have to
know my memories are being held
onto by those I love.”
We hauled them away by carloads, their belongings.
Some were worth much;
others just worth the idea,
“This was Grampa’s.”
or
“This was Grandma’s.”
Now they’ve become our memories.
Memories of the time when
we couldn’t
make time wait,
and our hands were useless to
stop life.
Sparklebumpsthebookwhore 