Garage Sale in the Hood

Kiwi slumps down in a black pile and gives Casey and I the look. You know the one I mean. We have neglected her daily walk. The early morning light shines through the window and accents her angles and I see such beauty in her sadness.

We gulp down some water and pump air into the tires of our bicycles. The mercury rises. Casey slips on his backpack and I load $55 dollars and change into my pocket. We funnel out of the cul-de-sac and follow a zig-zag pattern through the streets in search of a deal. Casey’s birthday weekend happens to coincide with the annual neighborhood garage sale. We used to sell, now we buy.

Treasures are everywhere. For five George Washingtons we buy the most recent Harry Potter book. The kid’s mistake was asking us to name our own price. Casey ensures me that we’ve taught the boy a valuable lesson in resale. A woman parts with her framed Mason Dixon print of cowboys dwarved by cumulus clouds. She invites us into her basement to see her collection but we decline. There’s stuff to buy. We meet some goofy neighbors on the adjacent cul-de-sac and agree to have a barbeque. They are selling old wedding gifts.

I ride ahead of Casey and turn back for a quick glance at the whole scene. He is the garage sale warrior, a framed Dixon print clamped under his left shoulder, a stuffed $2 backpack forming sweat circles under his arms, his lean frame equipped for two, three, even ten more sales. Under my arm is a doggie bed in mint condition, a peace offering for the one left behind.