The design shop owner spoke to a friend on her phone, a big brown box of Grandma’s china sat on the counter, an arc of my covenant, an opening in top where the word could get out, but not today
Yes, she would see her friend soon, the owner said. She walked around a table in burnt umber and talked and gazed to the sun and mouthed words and I faded. Could I give this up?
These willows and peacock hovering in blue jasmine on bone white? Came out on holidays and we saw them and admired them and Grandma ran her hand across them and gazed into our past
She always said it was Blue Willow a special kind of plate with a special pattern with a special kind of value, too. Did she know the difference? The woman and others, too, shook their heads.
My throwing-out period began a few weeks before, and I went to a shop and a crusted old man with skin bone white and dirt patina said he would give me $20 for it all.
What? I should just give away my arc? Yeah, I know it’s not Blue Willow and, yeah, I know the market has gone to hell in a brown box, but for that? Just that? I went away.
I waited for the woman. When she put down her phone, she said, yeah, not so much. And I went back to the dirt man and he was closed for the day.
Sun came up warm with a promise of even warmer as April dawned. “When does he open?” meaning that day, I asked. “Come back tomorrow morning.” A man said.
“Oh, okay, I got you. Wrong day.” “Yeah,” he said, and smiled. “What do you have?” I had a big brown box of old china. He said talk to him, the owner. “Ok.”
“Is that all you got?” the man called as I walked away. “China?”
“China? … yes,” I nodded. He looked over from his work.
“Got any pots and pans?”