Estate sales are sad. In the absence of the person who's recently died, strangers (like me) poke around in their private spaces, looking at what mattered to them in life. In the case of the one Cindy and I visited this morning, what mattered to the late-owner of the house looked very much like what matters to us. "She would be our friend!" we said.
Agnes was an artist. We looked at her unique art pieces made out of found objects, bottle caps and paint. They were not for sale, but her art supplies, jewelry and dishes were. Her bed was for sale, her furniture. There were boxes of fabric and buttons and threads--all sadly speaking for all that she still intended to do. Her book shelves were filled with books she'd read, many the same ones I've read recently.
I bought a beautiful hand-smocked dress for Elena and a couple of pieces of vintage fabric. I bought a blanket for my bed, freshly laundered and sweet smelling.
Other women like me were in the bedroom, spreading crocheted tablecloths on the bed. We spoke to each other in whispers and quiet voices. We all knew we were in the presence of death--Agnes' and our own. What would we leave behind undone? What strangers would one day look at the tracks of our lives as we were doing in Agnes' house?
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