Monday, June 20, 2011

Now we are packing up the rest of our history here, what we don't haul out to the lawn to sell. I cross my fingers that the weather holds.

Becky keeps asking me whether I want something. And I feel bad--because I know there must be something I want to take, to keep, some reminder of this home that's going away.

"How about the lamp from the living room?" she asks. "You used to read under it--you were always hogging that chair."

"We'd have to ship it, and it might bet broken."

She attaches a tag to it.

"How about the chair?"

"I'll find something. I know it's here. I just have to wait for it."

And I have another hour before our yard sale officially opens.

The house closes in two weeks, and I haven't bought my ticket. I haven't figured out where I'm going.

"Just do the brave thing," Becky said after supper last night, and I knew she meant fly to Santiago.

"You travel more than anyone I know, and you never see anything new."

"Want to come with me?"

The words hung in the air between us, like stars that suddenly fell out of the sky and still burned a little. I hadn't thought of it until the idea dropped out of my mouth.

"I'd be a third wheel--and I can't go away."

Suddenly, the absence left by Mom swallowed us both whole.

Now the sun is making its little entrance, and we're playing our roles. With each new load carted outside, I look to see whether I've found my past.

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