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What She Kept in Her Wallet
It was folded in thirds, a yellowed fraying bit of newsprint from a local paper that noted births, deaths and fiftieth anniversaries. I recognized the names, a couple my mother mentioned at holidays or when reminiscing about school days in Nebraska or when she was teaching, an old maid back then, scarred from a car accident. She married late, had me, late, and regarded her own fiftieth anniversary as her greatest accomplishment.
Found at Mary’s Estate Sale: “Cosita,” 101/200, 1982
Optimistic, I anticipate finding something unique to add to my collections of green depression glass or handmade baskets. Mary was a neighbor, a friend we drove to appointments. We arrive at the sale late, rooms are bare, staff tallying marks on sheets of paper. On a vacant bedroom window sill, a perfect 2x2 inch framed print, four tiny embossed flowers and a butterfly, hand-painted in multi-colors. Little thing. I slip it in my pocket and out again, happy to pay 50 cents.
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What Happened to the Gold Bracelet
My Parents Gave Me on My Sixteenth Birthday
A piano-shaped jewelry box. Gold, with a filigree pattern, red velvet lining, a gift from my ex-husband that I hated, the shape so kitschy and childish. So like him to see me as a doll. I left the earrings in it when my friends had a sale. Not bothering to price anything, I took offers and gave an okay to a man who looked inside and, gleeful, offered me five dollars.
The Missing Medal
I have it, my dad’s Bronze Star. It sits in a porcelain box with blue flowers on its lid. I sent my brother the gold pocket watch but did not disclose I had sold the coin collection, my resentment at his escape from the terrible decline of our parents so strong I was willing to lie, let him think that Duane, a guy mother hired to help her, had stolen it all.
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Mary C. Rowin © 2019
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