I know that's a harsh word for what I mean, but I can think of no there way to explain how I feel rummaging through someone else's things without their permission.
My heart rate even rises a little with a thump of guilt as I leaf through memories that belong to another life.
The graying son or daughter, looking on, will say things to me like,
"Mom loved those" or "Dad took such meticulous care of his tools."
I wonder if this personal reference sets their own hearts free just a little...
These things, like a telephone line that connects their memories to what home looked like, felt like, and sounded like are now going to someone who knows "Mom & Dad".
And maybe that's why I prefer used things to new.
Maybe that's why I barter for the best price on a bag of quilt squares.
I'm taking them and making them new again...
something that you can't find at just any store...
things with history and memories tied to them.
Stuff with character.
So, when I see the aging son standing at a distance, finding some solace and distraction in a cloud of nicotine, while the town pics through his father's things, I tip my hat in respect.
This "rummager"...this "treasure hunter", will take care of your memories,
and even thanks you for sharing them.
I understand that you are saying goodbye in more ways than one.
And at the Estate Sale I learn something precious...
In this life it's all about the "lose hold."
"For here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come." Hebrews 13:14
zibby's old teacup...better than new.
