All that we leave behind

The neighbors were lined up at the house across the street this morning. A sign in the window said “Estate Sale 9-3”. It was 8:30.  I was headed off to a class but made a note to return later.

After a few hours I remembered the sale and headed over. The house is simple, white, all on one level. I didn’t know who had lived there but was curious, all the same. I was greeted at the door by a businesslike Southern lady–a representative of the estate sale company, no doubt. Immediately, my eye went to a tiny Chinese teacup, intricately painted and tissue thin. “Oh my,” I whispered as I gently picked it up. She peeked over my shoulder, “yeah, it’s cute” she said.

The house is small, items had been tidily arranged according to the room they occupied. Glassware, silver, sets of plates in the dining room. Puzzles, linens, a small fan in a cozy living room. Not an abundance of things but the markings of a life all the same. Cut glass dishes–were these used often? Linens in lots of greens and blues revealed what must have been favorite colors. An abundant faith shone through in the paintings of Jesus, the trusting quotes embroidered on pillows, the books on the shelves.

I walked down a short, dark hallway into the bedroom. Tiny and dark, cozy and quiet, this room felt like the heart of the house. Tiny cut glass perfume bottles sat on a mirrored tray. Worn, crocheted blankets hung on a rack. I opened the closet door to find only a few things–quilted satin day robes, cardigans with intricate embroidery, a mandarin orange sweater that must have been her favorite–front and center, elbows worn and the fuzziness gone smooth in some places. I shut the door. I felt like an intruder.

The kitchen held everyday kitchen things–tupperware, everyday dishes and glassware. I dug through a box of utensils marked 2 for $1 and found well worn wooden spoons–choosing the most worn of the bunch, I imagined the treats that were made in this kitchen. An old tin in the corner at first glance, contained spoons but upon a second look held S&H green stamps in the bottom. Memories swirled of a similar jar in the house where I grew up, stamps waiting to be licked and stuck in the savings book, saving up to earn dishes to complete a set. An old rotary phone sat on the counter with a $10 sticker. Without thinking, I slowly dialed my childhood phone number, 547-5421, feeling the vibration of the phone as the dial righted itself after each number.

We are here so briefly. We refer to a lifetime as such a long thing–it “takes a lifetime” to do something really hard or meaningful. We collect what we need and what we love and these things remain after we’re gone, leaving a visual imprint of our life and the things we love. And those who come after try to read this puzzle, imagining who we were when we walked the earth. I paused to wonder how someone might interpret my odd collection of, um, treasures and who they’d think I was if they’d never known me. In a brief walk through this house I’d created an image of the woman who had lived here but how could I really know? Laying my hands on her belongings I imagined her hands there too and I couldn’t help thinking about all that we feel is so important as we go through our lives and then, in a moment, we are gone and the things we leave behind, the things that really matter, aren’t things at all.