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Garage Saling
By Debbie Farmer
A vision of my son, playing with it in his bassinet, flashed through my mind.
"I'm not sure how that got out here," I said as I snatched it out of her hand and tossed it to safety behind the lawn mower, "it's not for sale."
I settled back into my chair and relaxed until a group of woman came up the driveway and encircled my daughter's crib.
"How much is it?" one of them asked.
I pictured my daughter asleep and sucking her thumb safely beneath the covers.
"Sorry, it's just a display," I propped the crutches up on the side and threw a disco outfit over the top.
The morning got worse when a negotiation with a six-year old over a Barbie camper resulted in tears (mine); and I sold my daughter's ballet slippers and sobbed for 15 minutes over the matching leotard. It was time to quit when I sprained my back trying to hide boxes of baby clothes behind the water heater.
I closed the garage door, stumbled into the house, and collapsed on the couch. Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of money and wondered what my husband would say when he found the children's belongings hidden all over the garage.
At least I had more closet space, I thought as I crammed the money back into my pocket, but that was the toughest eight dollars I ever made.