At the estate sale we go through someone
else’s things, finger the linens, admire the
silver, the bone china, run our hands over
the smooth walnut table, the lovely corner
cabinet, rummage through the box of
old dance cards–1914!–the baby clothes
stiff with age, the tattered prints, maps,
postcards, memorabilia from so many
events and travels. We thumb through
the dusted off books, ooh and ahh over
the fancy ladies’ gloves, sort through the
old photographs, try on the hats, admire
the handiwork on pillowcases, tablecloths,
needlepoint. We are on a journey through
someone else’s life with only these
artifacts for clues, no narrative, no family,
no one here to tell her story. For example,
what became of Mr. Mann, whose name
appears on a February 1, 1915 dance card,
who asked her to save him a place for a
whirl around the floor to “Poor Pauline?”
Did he bow and kiss her hand when the
dance ended, did a romance ensue?
We don’t know the color of her eyes
(or his), the sound of her laughter, her
loves and losses, whether her dreams
came true, how many children she had
(if any) and why oh why they would
have let all these precious things of hers
leave the house with strangers.
