Mortal Currency

Despite the open door and the unspoken invitation, it seemed like an intrusion to be there. The house was the definition of clutter, but it was hard to tell for certain if the chaos had been paradoxically created in the interest of organization, or if it had been created as a part of the randomness of life. Each room was filled with items that logically belonged together, but crowded tighter and closer than one would expect them in life. It would have been hard to imagine all of these things put away in a neat and tidy manner, and yet it was equally hard to imagine anyone living in this kind of mess.

Such must be the impression a stranger gets when they enter someone else’s home unannounced.

I had been to garage sales that day, several in fact, and had been to many more in the past, but this was the first estate sale. The home was modest, old, a reflection of who had lived there, perhaps. The others around me trolling the rooms looking for scraps of a life lived fully and to completion reminded me of vultures picking over a corpse. Yeah, I know, morbid and angsty are my dark and sordid thoughts, yada yada… But there it is. Someone had lived here, once. Someone had hosted dinners, entertained their children, had coffee with the neighbours. The many piled and sorted jumbles of belongings had once defined a life, only to become penny-fodder for strangers looking for a bargain. It makes you wonder, when you look around your home, how your belongings would be arranged for viewing if you were gone. How would the things that make up a life be divided and sold away? How much would the fragments of your life be worth?

Perhaps most poetic, as I left the house empty-handed, was the rusted hulk waiting in the driveway.
An industrial dumpster.

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