These items didn’t sell. They now sit on dusty shelves and folding tables, marked with low-priced stickers. I fold the clothes from the closet: the shirts, the pants, the dresses. I take the dolls out of their glass display cases and stuff them into a plastic bag. I feel odd—like I’m invading a space, one that was once occupied by love, strife, laughter, and tears. That’s what I imagine, anyway, as I sort the items. We have permission to be here, though, and while here we learn, little by little, about who they were and how they lived. Maybe we are invading a space, but we have to. It’s our job.
As I go through this process, a discarded check stub tells me where they worked; I see where they traveled when a photo album turns up, showing trips taken with the family. Whether I’m helping to set up for a sale or packing up after one, I see a life on display: vinyl albums, cassettes, and CDs of country-western, pop, and Polish music reveal personal tastes in entertainment. An autographed Tony Orlando program celebrates a trip to Branson, Missouri. Sewing machines, cross stitch material, and tools tell about hobbies. Boxes of camping gear reflect outdoor family fun once enjoyed. Medicine bottles and treatments tell me of the ailments from which they suffered. Other personal items to be sorted show the decline of later years: a cane, a bathtub bench, a toilet seat riser, a box of adult diapers. A birthday card to “Mom” is among the items found on a dusty closet shelf; it speaks of a child’s love for a parent.