Day of the sale

Day of the sale

He stood at the kitchen window, peering through the blinds. He looked past the now empty hummer feeder; "Always a waste of water", he had argued with his wife, and over the now neglected flower beds.

Instead, he saw the milling crowd gathered in the driveway and disappearing around the corner as a single line he knew waited at his front door.

He looked towards the garage, remembering the cars he and the kids had maintained, fixed, and restored over the years. His son had wanted the Jaguar and the daughter preferred the Triumph. At least he knew the cars were in good hands.

All his tools had been laid out, the tool chest drawers open for inspection, power tools laid out in two rows. The worst part; the kids only needed, or wanted, a few of them. Not even his father's carpentry set in the chest he had built as an apprentice.

Stepping back, he looked around; at the kitchen table - the first furniture they bought when they got the house (after the bedroom set) - now stacked with dishes and silver. She had insisted on three sets; one for everyday, another for guests, and a third for holidays. And, of course, all the appropriate cups and glasses.

He looked towards the counters. There were the pans and skillets she had taken pride in. They had opted for top-of-the-line. She had fed her family with them for more years than he wanted to count.

There were the knives he had carefully honed for her every Saturday, and the glasses they had served wine to their guests with.

There was even a bottle of whiskey he'd been given years ago when he retired, and never opened.

He knew the appliances, old as they might be, would not be kept by the new owners, but they had served him and her well.

In the living room he looked at the paintings on the walls, all done by her over the years. The kids had taken the few they wanted and left the rest. He knew he had nowhere to display them, so they stayed.

He ran a hand over the back of her chair, much as he had every evening, and raised it as if to stroke her hair, as he had done every evening.

He sat in 'his' chair, scanning the room; everything had a price tag, everything had a price. Except his memories.

He didn't have to look to see the initials his daughter had scratched into the stair. Or the marks made on the door jamb marking the kids growth. Nor the dent in the closet door he had done in a moment of anger many years before.

She had wanted it fixed, but he never did. It was his personal reminder; don't lose your temper.

Mrs Jackson, the sales agent, had said that seldom was an owner present at a sale, implying that they were seldom 'here' at all.

He could see what she meant. He didn't want to watch his life being picked over by strangers, haggling over the price of something that had already been marked low.

Like scavengers picking over the bones of his family.

He didn't go down the hall to his bedroom, the memories were too strong. He hadn't slept in that bed since finding his wife one morning, lifeless, some ten years ago. And the kids' rooms hadn't been used since the last one graduated college and went off on her career.

Although he didn't go out to the porch - the first of the crowd was right at the bottom step - he knew every foot of the decking he had only stopped oiling a few years ago, and the swing he had built the first year they were in the house. They had watched, and joked with, the neighbors from there.

And watched many sunsets of a summer evening.

The lawn, now brown and trampled, had been the scene of many a water fight between he and the kids. Not just his, but from all over the block.

He smiled in memory of many of them; he'd watched them go from toddlers to adults, seemingly in the blink of an eye.

He gathered his one suitcase, the photo album and scrap book, and stepped out.

The first of the line surged forward in anticipation, only to fall back as he closed the door.

He pushed through the barely opening crowd, walking to his daughter's waiting car. Placing his bag and albums on the back seat, he joined her in front.

"Dad, are you alright?"

Buckling his seat belt, he nodded and pointed forward.

He didn't look back as they drove away.

A lone tear formed in his eye.