I’d rather go to an estate sale than a department store or mall any day of the week. It’s a peek into another life, all of its loves and obsessions, its daily routines. If you look closely, you can see what someone thought was lovely and precious, you can spot their route to the coffee pot in the morning, see which spices they liked to use.
I love it because every story is important. Especially the forgotten ones, the ones so often sold off to the highest bidder instead of being cherished by those left behind. Sometimes sold because there is no one left to love them, or sold because they must be. I will treasure those stories. I will put the stitched hankie on my nightstand. I will put the faded portrait on my wall. I will read the dogeared pages and drink from the chipped teacup.
There is history and beauty in the patina of the everyday. We see ourselves in each others’ stories, we see our mothers and grandfathers, our loves lost and found. Our struggles and victories, our firsts and lasts. And through this sharing of stories grows the kinship of mankind, so often misplaced and forgotten, sold to the highest bidder.
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