A flyer arrived in the mailbox announcing the first annual neighborhood yard sale. The premise was simple: the coordinators would take care of the promotion and advertising and anyone who wanted to participate could set up shop in their own driveway and sell whatever they wanted to get rid of.

We were in.

We’ve been meaning to do a yard sale for a while now: the closets and shed are full of stuff we don’t use but is too good to throw away and somehow slightly too valuable or sentimental to donate. So I spent the day looking into dark corners and dusty spaces for the things that I usually overlook. The dining room filled up with items. Then the living room followed suit.

At first, the process was a relief: finally! We could get rid of this or that: those bolts of unused fabric, that trunk that took up so much space but never held much, the suits that didn’t fit, the stack of paper bags… But by sometime in the mid afternoon, I found myself feeling sensitive and uneasy and just slightly raw- not about anything in particular so much as the process of dredging up all these items had also dredged up a circuit of memories that I was now attempting to assign values at rock-bottom-Crazy-Eddie’s-Going-out-of-business-everything-must-go prices. Twenty five cents. A dollar. Three dollars. There were suddenly so many things to feel.

I put the task aside for the rest of the afternoon and went for a run instead. It was still the height of daylight and blazing with sunshine, but I needed the relief enough that I scrubbed on the sunblock and went anyway.

So I’m a little bit more balanced feeling about it now. Tomorrow the real pricing begins. We’ll see how it goes.

~ by Gwydhar Gebien on June 25, 2018.

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